


Just a Thought

by Howdylilpal



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cyborg!Hanzo, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gradual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howdylilpal/pseuds/Howdylilpal
Summary: Hanzo Shimada was 21 when he died to his brother's hand. He was ready to accept death, but the ever elusive Overwatch had other plans for him. Nothing could have ever prepared him for the onslaught of conflicting feelings towards his new body, the realization that the people he was supposed to lead betrayed him, or the annoying cowboy that really needed to learn what the term "personal space" meant.[Tags and ratings will be adjusted as necessary.]





	1. Divergence

_Remember your duty. Do it for the clan._

Those were the words the elders said right before they dismissed Hanzo Shimada from the council room. It was early in the morning, around two or so if Hanzo recalled correctly. He was strolling down one of the side pathways in the estate. It was one of the few pathways in the building without any _shōji_ giving way to some room or another and it was the only one of those special little hallways that only had a single wall. On one side, there was plain wood paneling cut in a fashion that matched the “traditional” aesthetic of the estate. Direct opposite of the wall were wooden supports with thin metal poles sticking out near the top of them. Several craftsman style light fixtures were settled on those metal poles. The opaque orange glow that emitted from the fixtures was always dim and today was no exception.

The moonlight streaming from the sky was especially luminous that night. The hallway was bathed in a shimmering white-silver glow that illuminated the dark corners the soft orange light of the fixtures could not reach. Underneath the rays of moonlight was one of the many gardens littering the estate. It was full to the brim with beds of majestic blooming flowers of every color, shape, and size, all of which were maintained by the numerous gardeners that roamed around aimlessly as they tended to the gardens. Great cherry blossom trees were planted towards the center of the garden; synthetic, of course, so their branches would house soft pink blossoms throughout the year. Hanzo spared the garden a glance as he past, allowing his gaze to roam across the lush landscape, taking in the sight of the flush purple roses and the pink petals dancing in the breeze. The fireflies that flitted through Hanamura at night were all but gone save for a few outliers, evidenced only by radiant green light that blinked in and out of existence. Hanzo couldn’t recall how many times he wandered out into one of the gardens, seating himself underneath one of the cherry blossom trees as he watched the stars twinkle in the sky. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of those nights. In fact, it was a very different night altogether. 

Earlier that day, just as Hanzo was prepping for bed after a long day of grueling work, he heard the soft swish of his door sliding open. He narrowed his eyes at the intruder: a young servant girl with wide brown eyes filled with the same cold fear most strangers felt when locking eyes with the heir to the Shimada clan. She promptly bowed respectfully, stuttering out an apology as she informed him that the elders had called upon him. Hanzo had pursed his lips thoughtfully, turning his back to the girl before dismissing her with a quick wave. He sensed her wave of relief as she quietly shut the door behind her.

Unlike his brother, Hanzo was not one to hold off on important meetings to sleep, finish a meal or, lord forbid, goof off. Hanzo had always gotten out of bed or scarfed down the rest of his meal if he was needed elsewhere. If was certain about on one thing, it was that the clan elders did not wait for anyone. He stripped off his sleeping wear and threw on the orange _kyudo-gi_ and the black ruffled pants he had on earlier in the day. He shoved his black gloves on, brushed his hair into a presentable state and, after some contemplation, decided to bring along his trusty sword just in case. After making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything (sparing a second to gaze mournfully at the tea he knew would be cold by the time he returned), Hanzo exited his room and made his way to the council room.

It was no secret that the Shimada clan had fallen into disarray every since Father’s death. He had fallen ill one day, coughing loudly during meetings and sporting a mildly high fever that made his discomfort evident to anyone who so much as glanced in his direction. No one thought much about the sudden sickness and why should they? The clan was extraordinarily wealthy; Father could afford any doctor he wished for. Concerns began to rise when Father had to excuse himself from his duties. It was only when his sick days off turned from a few days every now and then to every day did the clan began to worry. 

Hanzo could remember his visits to Father’s room. He would seat himself in a chair placed next to the rolled in hospital bed the doctors insisted on bringing in.The once feared leader of a criminal empire was trapped in his own bed with countless machines around him displaying his vitals. Hanzo remembered looking down at his father and realizing just how poor his condition was. His complexion was pale, his eyes wandered around the room aimlessly, and he licked his lips as to moisten them before he spoke. He had been reduced to a shrunken old man who mewled pitifully when Hanzo so much as tried to hold his hand. Pathetic was the only word Hanzo could use to describe the man who had groomed him to be an heir since the day he was born.

On several occasions, Hanzo debated twisting the plugs of one of the machines to tease the old man as though he were planning to unplug them. He wanted to remind Father that even though he was the top dog of Hanamura for a lifetime, he could be reduced shriveling corpse and as powerless as a leaf drifting in the wind. Once or twice, he indulged his fantasies with thoughts of unplugging the life support and watching the life drain out of his father’s eyes. He never touched the plugs of course, he never even sat near them. He settled on visiting Father when he had free time, waiting with everyone else for the faithful day when Father’s eyes closed and never opened again.

Hanzo had stopped once he reached the entrance to the council. He rapped his knuckles on the grand door leading into the room, entering only once he heard one of the elders call “Enter!” aloud. He had walked into the room, kneeled down respectfully onto the carpet in the middle of the room head down, and waited for the elders to speak. The elders of the clan sat on an elevated platform in the back of the room where they preened and sneered at whoever was unlucky enough to be called to the chamber. If there was ever a time where entering into the council room was a pleasant or enlightening experience, it had long since passed.

It was no surprise when the topic of a new leader came up. It had become the elders’ favorite topic ever since Father died and they become insistent on dragging Hanzo into their chambers whenever they could. Hanzo mentally prepared himself to hash out the same argument he had meticulously crafted over the past few weeks. The clan needed proper time to mourn the leader, he would say. There was an obscene amount of paperwork that needed to be completed before a new leader could be taken, the brothers, mostly Genji, needed time before taking the mantle of leadership, the preparation for a ceremony (which quite a few people wanted for some ungodly reason) would take time, and so on. Hanzo had slowly began to polish it as the weeks dragged along, filling in the illogical cracks of his argument with whatever he could and sharpening the stronger clauses to a fine point. The elders brought up the topic immediately, and just as Hanzo opened his mouth to retort with his rehearsed argument, he was quickly silenced by a demand he never would have thought of in his wildest dreams.  

Everyone knew that Genji was more of a burden than a valuable asset to the clan. It was hard to defend the usefulness of a person who skipped classes to go out and party with rowdy strangers who cared more about getting into both his pants and wallet than forming any sort of relationship the clan could benefit from. It was painfully obvious that Genji’s reluctance was one of the reasons that Hanzo was holding off the appointment of new leadership which, in turn, made the elders all the more angry. The elders were persistent with their attack on Genji, claiming that he needed to either step up or be taken out of the picture. While Hanzo understood the elders’ feelings towards Genji with perfect clarity, he was wholly unprepared for Hana, one of the more stubborn and intelligent elders, to give him an ultimatum.

“You will go to Genji and give him a choice: lead the clan or pay with his life,” she had said, proudly raising her chin up as she glowered down at Hanzo. “Do it tonight or we’ll take matters into our own hands.”

Hanzo leaped to his feet in a fit of rage and began to protest. A yelling match commenced for nearly half an hour or so and with every minute that ticked by, Hanzo grew more and more tired. He had tried to protect Genji from the wrath of the clan ever since the funeral. How could he not? When he was giving a speech at Father’s funeral, Genji stood mutely at his side with his eyes cast down because he could not stop the soft sobs that escaped his mouth whenever he looked up to see the giant portrait of Father’s face in front of them. Genji was the closest to Father, perhaps the only person on the planet who truly cared about the man, and his death hit Genji hard. He deserved some time to come to terms with Father’s death. The elders, however, did not share Hanzo’s sentiments.

The longer Hanzo held out, the harder it got to ignore the reasonings of the elders. Despite what he said, Hanzo knew the clan needed a leader. They were losing money, resources, men, and trust from their clients. The heat in Hanzo’s voice began to dwindle with every passing second and finally he conceded. He flopped back onto his knees with his head lowered submissively.

“What if I fail to both convince him to join and beat him in a duel?” Hanzo had asked, his voice soft from defeat. Hana had chuckled at that. She twirled a finger through a strand of hair and spoke in a tone reminiscent of someone scolding a child.

“You underestimate yourself, young Shimada,” she had said. “Theoretically, if you lost to your brother, you needn’t worry. The clan will do well to properly dispose of your corpse while we try to coerce your brother on our own. One way or another, the clan will have a leader by the break of dawn.”

The elders has dismissed Hanzo ten minutes ago with an order that pulled on his heart strings. He veered to the left of the scenic pathway, catching sight of the door to Genji’s room from the corner of his eyes. As he neared the room, Hanzo was greeted by the sound of soft giggling. He raised his eyebrows appraisingly as he stopped outside of the room. It wasn’t unusual for Genji to sneak his friends and lovers into the estate for some fun, but it was rather late for such tomfoolery, wasn’t it? He could hear the telltale sound of a creaking bed followed by what Hanzo assumed to be Genji saying something in a low husky voice. His partner, a girl it seemed, snickered in response. Perhaps Hanzo would have felt more sympathetic about ruining their fun if he was unfamiliar to his brother’s antics. This wasn’t the first time he had interrupted his brother and his current partner and, privately, he prayed that it wouldn’t be the last.

Considering that Hanzo wasn’t trying to be sneaky in the slightest, Genji and the girl (someone Hanzo didn’t recognize, she must have been new) shouldn’t have looked so surprised when he slammed the door open. The girl was hoisted on top of Genji who was laying down on his bed. She was straddling his hips, leaning down far enough so she could mash her lips against his. The straps of her tank-top had been shrugged down her shoulders low enough to show off her chest but high enough to cover the essentials. It appeared that the two had not gotten far as Genji was by no means in a state of undress nor was the girl. It took a moment for the both of them to register the door opening but, when they did, they pulled apart hastily as though it burned to touch one another. Hanzo heard the painful clicking of teeth as the girl retreated, licking her lips as both she and Genji turned to look at whoever interrupted them.

Fear bloomed in the girl’s wide eyes once realization hit her. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, no doubt trying to formulate some sort of excuse. Genji on the other hand appeared only mildly annoyed by the intrusion. After realizing who had barged into his room, he sighed dramatically and slide his hands down and off of the girl on top of him.

“You could have knocked you know,” Genji said in a bored voice. He was unreasonably relaxed compared to the girl, but that was just to be expected. The brothers had gone through this process numerous times. Far too many times according to the elders.

“You could have obeyed orders and refrained from strangers into the estate,” Hanzo shot back. He tried to keep himself calm and composed, but he couldn’t hide the venom that had crept into his voice.

“Whoa, what crawled up your ass?” Genji asked with a chuckle. Hanzo faintly noted that the humor in Genji’s voice sounded forced. If he thought he could laugh his way out of this situation, he was in for a surprise. Hanzo pointedly ignored the comment and instead turned his gaze to the girl who appeared to be taken aback by Hanzo’s aggression.

“Leave,” Hanzo said as he glared at the girl. She froze in place, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. Genji evidently saw her terror. He attempted to coax her by reaching up and caressing her cheek, mumbling quiet pleas Hanzo couldn’t quite catch. The girl looked down at Genji as he continued to sweetly whisper to her. They stayed like that for several agonizing seconds before the girl mouthed an apology and dismounted, much to Genji’s visible disappointment. She kept her eyes lowered to the ground as she shouldered past Hanzo. Once she was off the bed, Hanzo’s eyes strayed to his brother. His eyes never left Genji and it was only until the brothers couldn’t hear the girl’s footsteps did Genji slowly sit up.

“I thought I told you not to bring your partners into the estate,” Hanzo said as he glared at his brother. Genji snorted as he ran his fingers through the spiky ball of his loathsome neon green hair. Everything in Genji’s room, from the countless posters of video games, movies, and celebrities to the bright orange scarf and shredded white attire Genji insisted on wearing, was utterly obnoxious. Hanzo felt like he had stepped into an arcade room, with its obscenely colored wallpaper and childish plushies, than the room of one a member of a respectable clan.

“I recall you saying not to bring girls to the estate,” Genji countered audaciously. “Besides today, I haven’t brought any ladies to the estate.”

“You know full and well bringing men to the estate is not what I meant.” Hanzo said as sighed in irritation. How his younger brother managed to push his buttons in every conversation they had and yet the most imposing criminal minds couldn’t so much as make him flinch was beyond Hanzo.

“Jealous much?” Genji asked as he smirked devilishly. “Perhaps you wouldn’t be in such a sour mood if I brought someone home for you. Help continue the Shimada line, y’know?”

“Genji,” Hanzo hissed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as he mentally counted to ten. He could already tell that conversation was going to be an uphill battle. They had spoken for barely five minutes and already Hanzo was trying to suppress the angry accusations that were bubbling in his chest. Exhaling softly, Hanzo opened his eyes and let his hand slide down his face. Composure was key; he had to stay calm, ignore his brother’s sarcastic comments and do what he was ordered to do.

_Remember your duty. Do it for the clan._

“I’m not here to chastise you on your choice of partners,” Hanzo said, not fully concealing the disgust in his voice as he took a step forward. “We need to talk about your position in the clan.” Predictably, Genji let out a long groan with a level of annoyance only someone who had been holding off an uncomfortable conversation could achieve.

“Seriously?” Genji said as he rolled his eyes. “You barged into my room to talk about that? Can’t it wait awhile? I’d really rather not have this conversation again.” The first few times Hanzo had tried to bring up the subject, Genji had protested in a similar fashion. Hanzo had relented then, assuming Genji just needed more time, but that was in the past. Hanzo could only protect Genji for so long and that protection had expired.

“No,” Hanzo said firmly. “You have stalled for long enough. We’re settling this here and now.” Genji scrunched his nose, clicking his tongue thoughtfully as he diverted his gaze. Hanzo remained quiet as he watched his brother leisurely push himself off his bed and stalk to the open window—Genji never opened his window so it was safe to assume the girl had entered from there—a little ways from his bed. He paused, wrapping an arm around his chest and bringing a fist up to his lips as he stared out of the window. An uncomfortable silence settled in the room. Hanzo was not impatient by any means, but seeing Genji gazing at the stars with his eyes narrowed in a contemplative manner that Hanzo had only seen when they were children was unnerving to say at the least.

Hanzo wasn’t sure if Genji was trying to prolong the inevitable or if he was genuinely conflicted about the conversation. Hanzo squeezed the handle of his sword anxiously. In his mind, Hanzo could see Genji snorting aloud before turning around to mock his elder brother. He’d force Hanzo’s hand; Genji would force his brother to take out his sword and do as the elders commanded. Genji was a loudmouth rebellious annoyance that dishonored the clan again and again but he was Hanzo’s brother for goodness sake. Harming him, let alone killing him, was the last thing he wanted to think about. _Please don’t try and ignore this. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Please-_

“Okay.” Hanzo was drawn out of his thoughts as Genji dropped his arms and turned around, not quite meeting his eye. “Let’s talk. What does the clan want from me?” Hanzo hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he heard himself exhale in relief.

“The clan wants you—us, to be more precise—to step up and take the role of the leaders of the clan,” Hanzo said in the authoritative tone he was so familiar with. “You will be required to participate in more clan affairs and, to put it simply, play a bigger role than you currently do. Which—” Hanzo lifted up a finger to silence Genji who had opened his mouth to retaliate. “—as you may have guessed, would mean spending less time… indulging yourself.” Hanzo tried to stop the disappointment from creeping into this voice, but, he could do no such thing. Genji, much to Hanzo’s dismay, caught onto his brother’s revulsion.

“I’m surprised the clan wants a dirty playboy like me leading them,” Genji scoffed as he stubbornly folded his arms across his chest. “Here I was thinking that they’d rather forget I would exist.”

“Regardless of your, ah, hobbies and the level of indifference you have towards your duties, you are still a Shimada and with a dragon no less,” Hanzo said. “The clan needs up both.” Hanzo had to refrain himself from adding, “Despite your insistence of being an embarrassment to the clan.” Genji, however, seemed to hear the unspoken words. His fingers curled up against his palm and the corners of his lips twitched downward.

“Why would the clan want someone who's skipped out of his duties training?” Genji asked. He took a sudden interest in one of the many movie posters on the wall and began to stare at it intently. Genji leaned against the wall he was near, propping himself up with one foot on the wall and the other on the ground. Occasionally, Genji would glance in Hanzo’s direction, but every time their eyes met he quickly looked away and desperately searched for something else to look at. An annoyed huff escaped Hanzo’s lips as he lifted his chin up in the commanding way Father had taught him to.

“You can be taught,” Hanzo said as he took another step forward, willing Genji to look up at him as he slowly began to close the distance between them. “You will grow into the position in time. You didn’t honestly think the clan would let you flounder helplessly in the dark when you have so much power in your hand, did you?” Hanzo smiled in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, but he had little practice with the subject. His smile looked incredibly forced and his stony voice sounded far more condescending than he had intended. Genji was not impressed.

“Do I not get a say in this?” he asked, shifting his feet before finally meeting Hanzo’s gaze. Hanzo almost wished Genji hadn’t gathered the courage to look at him. There were mixed emotions in those eyes, emotions that Hanzo did not know how to deal with. Genji was both challenging Hanzo to try and tell him no, his feelings were of no consequence, and yet he was also pleading, as though he already knew that protesting was futile, to nod along and let him have his way. Genji’s stubbornness—Hanzo reluctantly realized—was eerily reminiscent of Father’s own indomitable nature. Somehow, that irritated Hanzo more than anything Genji had said or done in the last few months.

“Our feelings have never mattered,” Hanzo scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You should know that by now. The clan is all that matters.” Hanzo had hoped that would be enough. Do what Father did: dismiss the problem and keep pushing along. No one stood up to Father, no one who challenged him and lived a full life. Hanzo had learned, no trained, to be just like him. It should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Genji pushed himself off the wall and took a couple steps towards his brother. They were so close that they were nearly touching chests. Hanzo could feel Genji’s hot breath against his neck as he pointed an accusing finger at him.

“What about the feelings of the people who suffer because of the clan?” Genji challenged. ”Do you truly think I’ll sit back and watch the clan tarnish the lives of others, let alone be the one to do so?”

For a moment, Hanzo stared at Genji, dumbly as he tried to process what his brother had just said. Genji was opposing, no, _defying_ him like child sticking their tongue out at a school teacher who was reprimanding them. He was acting like he had a choice, like the fate of the Shimada clan was an inconsequential factor in his life, a simple annoyance that could be swatted away like a fly. The sheer arrogance oozing out of Genji was baffling if not downright abhorrent. The Shimada brothers had little contact with one another beyond shouting matches and small talk that was as brief as it was forced. Hanzo knew that their relationship was strained, he saw the contempt in Genji’s eyes when anyone confronted him for his poor behavior. He had watched as his brother lashed out at everyone and did as he willed. He knew that Genji did not care for the clan but never would he have imagined him to care so little for those who had tenderly cared for him ever since he was born.

Anger churned in Hanzo’s chest in hot waves of unbridled fury. The temper he had repressed for so long suddenly flared. Hanzo grinned involuntarily and then he _laughed_. It started off as a soft chuckle that built up into sonorous howl that had Hanzo throwing his head back as the laughter spilled from this mouth. His normally orotund voice suddenly gained an alluring tone that would have sound pleasant in any other situation. The sound was completely alien to both Hanzo and Genji if the way his eyes widened in surprise were to be trusted. It was almost painful to make such an unprecedented sound. Just thinking about that, the fact that laughing was painful, made Hanzo laugh even harder.

“You fool,” Hanzo said as the laughter died in his throat. “How dare you take the moral high ground!”

“I didn’t-”

“Silence!” Hanzo sliced his arm through the air dismissively “You have lived your entire life off of blood money,” Hanzo growled. “You flaunted your money and used it for your own selfness needs. How do you think you got enough money to go off partying every night? Where did you think that money came from? Who gave you that money?”

Hanzo jabbed a finger angrily into Genji’s chest. His voice began to steadily climb in volume, becoming more sharp and harsh with every word. “The clan did! You may not know about all of the clan’s dealings, but you sure as hell know that we are the heirs to a criminal empire. It is our duty to serve, our duty to do what we must to provide for the clan, even if it means damning those who oppose us. Do not pretend to be better than the rest of us when you have been benefiting off the suffering of others since the day you were conceived!”

The room went quiet. Hanzo leaned back and watched as Genji, who had been quiet for several moments, pressed his mouth into a fine line. He pushed Hanzo’s finger away in a not so gentle manner before turning away. He marched over to the nearby table where his sheathed sword and bag full of shurikens rested. Hanzo watched with muted interest as Genji strapped the sword to his belt and pocketed his shurikens. Genji’s face was impassive; his body language was tense, but his face did not betray his emotions, much to Hanzo’s displeasure.

“What are you doing?” Hanzo finally asked as Genji turned around to face him. The simmering anger in Hanzo’s stomach had drained out of his voice and was replaced by a hint of curiosity.

“Training,” Genji said as he made a move towards the door. His eyes were downcast and his voice had grown softer, more vulnerable.  

“At this time of day?” Hanzo asked as he raised his eyebrows. He firmly planted his hand on Genji’s chest as he tried to step by. “I hardly think now is the time to partake in such an activity, don’t you?” As though an afterthought, he quickly added, “I still need your answer.” Genji did not reply. He was oddly devoid of his usual snarky demeanor. In fact, he was oddly demure considering the circumstances. It was perplexing, if not wholly unexpected. Hanzo cocked his head slightly, prompting an answer from Genji, but his younger brother did not open his mouth. It was only when Genji gently, not roughly like before, removed Hanzo’s hand did Hanzo realize that Genji had already answered his question.

“Genji, you can’t refuse the clan,” Hanzo stated, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

“Or what?” Genji scoffed as he shouldered past Hanzo. “What could they possibly-”

“They’ll _kill_ you!” Hanzo hissed as he shoved himself in the doorway. He glared at Genji who growled in annoyance. Genji was finally meeting his eye, but that look—he couldn’t decipher it. Panic rose up as the realization hit him. He had known Genji for his entire life. Why couldn’t he read him?

“Don’t you get it? If you aren’t with the clan, you’re against it. The elders want you to straighten yourself out and accept your birthright.” Hanzo was becoming desperate, grasping at whatever excuse he could to convince Genji to obey. “Father can’t protect you anymore, _I_ can’t protect you anymore. The clan will have you serve it or it have your head. There is no in-between!”

Hanzo could feel heat rise up to his reddened cheeks as he tightened his grip on the door frame. His heart was beating a mile an hour as he watched Genji who wore the same reflective look on his face that he had had when he was staring out of the window. For what felt like an eternity, the two simply stared at one another. “Please don’t do this,” he begged his brother internally. “Don’t make me hurt you.” The room remained quiet. Genji clicked his tongue; he didn’t answer. Somewhere outside, a sparrow cried.

When Genji met Hanzo’s gaze, he searched into his brother’s eyes. Hanzo didn’t know what he could possibly be looking for. Was he trying to measure the weight of Hanzo’s words? Did he see the conflict raging inside of him? Years later when Hanzo recalled the memory of his brother staring into the depths of his soul, he would wonder why he noticed just how pretty his brother’s eyes were. They were a rich cognac with flecks of gold sprinkled into them. They were missing the usual flicker of mischief that danced within them, but Hanzo recognized the sharp intelligence that dwelled in those brown eyes. It was those beautiful brown eyes that Hanzo had secretly envied for years and it was only when those eyes darted away did Hanzo’s heart shatter.

“Let them try,” Genji said as he roughly pushed past his brother without so much as a look over his shoulder.

“Genji!” Hanzo called as he spun around and began to hurry after his brother. When he trekked down to Genji’s room earlier, he had pushed thoughts of a poor outcome out of his head. He did not want to think about taking arms against his brother. He couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to send Genji to an early grave, and yet the time to unsheathe his sword had come. He was a failure, a complete and utter disappointment who wasn’t clever enough to convince his own brother to not walk headfirst into death. Stupid, a voice in Hanzo’s head whispered to him. How could he fail so magnificently? What a foolish child he was.

“The clan will have sent assassins by now,” Hanzo sputtered, his fingers twitching as he tried to grasp for some way to scare Genji in submission. “You’ll only get yourself killed if you turn away from the clan.” Genji barked out a cruel laugh and peered over his shoulder with a grin.

“Is that the best you got?” he sneered at his brother. The amusement in his eyes halted Hanzo in place. Confusion clouded him as he stared at Genji, willing him to explain what was so amusing about his inevitable assassination. “If you really think the clan will kill me, they would have done it by now. God, I thought you of all people would have figured that out.” Hanzo flinched at Genji’s words. Genji didn’t even bother to stop walking as he continued to leer at his petrified brother. “You’re so naive, brother! Life will go on as it always has. Even if they do end up sending some whelp to stick me with knife, they will break me. I will _never_ lead the Shimada clan for as long as I live.”

Hanzo’s breath hitched. He didn’t even notice that Genji turned his head away, nor did he look up as he heard his brother’s soft pit-pats along the wooden floor.

 _Never_.

Hanzo rolled the word around in his head, examining it at though he was trying to decipher a code. Hanzo mouthed the word to himself, lowering his head as he tasted the implications on his lips. Never is what he had feared. Never was the one word Hanzo dreaded to hear. Negotiations were done for. Like always, nothing Hanzo could say would win Genji over. If anything, he would just provide entertainment for his brother as he danced around the argument and laughed at his brother’s stupidity.

_Remember your duty. Do it for the clan._

In a single shuddering breath, Hanzo shoved all of his emotions into the bowels of his heart. It was an art that he had perfected: brushing his feelings under the rug and adorning an apathetic mask so he could do what needed to be done. It was ironic, really. Genji had never mastered the skill, let alone understood it. He mocked Hanzo for waddling around with a stick up his arse all the time, but for a man who was adept at reading the people around him, he never fully understood why Hanzo acted like he did. He could never understand that his brother’s apathy was really just a facade. Perhaps he did see beyond the mask but never dug in too deep least he had to deal with complicated feelings that were far less attractive than booze and sex. Hanzo gritted his teeth and pushed his thoughts out of his mind. He could scream out his frustrations and damn himself later over the top of his brother’s corpse.

“You know,” Hanzo said conversationally as he inched his hand towards the handle of his sword. “There could be an assassin watching you right now.” Hanzo ignored the throaty snort from his brother. “The elders were expecting you to deny their request.”

“Let this assassin come then,” Genji said with a nonchalant wave. “I’ll be sure to spot them before they spot me.” Hanzo scoffed under his breath. His brother was going to be arrogant to the end, was he? So be it, it would all be over soon.

“I doubt it,” Hanzo mumbled softly. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Without any warning whatsoever, Hanzo ripped his blade out of its sheath and made a dash towards Genji. He had cut half of the distance between the two when Genji stopped and realized that something was wrong. He turned around just in time to block the downcut of Hanzo’s blade with his own. Genji, with his lips caught in a grimace, was in the wrong stance for being hit with such strength. He barely held back the force of Hanzo’s attack and found himself stumbled backwards. Hanzo let out a grunt as he pushed himself away from Genji’s parry, taking several steps back as he raised his sword and positioned himself into an offensive stance.

“Brother?” Genji’s voice had lost its snide tone. It was weak, timid even. “What are you doing?” Hanzo painfully grounded his teeth together as he tried to block out the pathetic tone of his brother’s voice. Genji’s eyes had grown considerably wide as he searched Hanzo’s face for an answer to his actions.

“Fool,” Hanzo snarled as he narrowed his eyes in what he hoped what would like hatred. “Did I not warn you? If you refuse to obey the will of the clan, then you will be taken out of the picture completely.”

“So they sent you?” Hanzo tried to ignore the way Genji choked on his words. He could see the corner of Genji’s lips twitch as though he was trying to find a reason to smile, but he couldn’t. “This… this is...” Genji was at a lost for words. His chest rose and fell with rapid ragged breaths. Genji’s first instinct was to look away and distract himself so he could ignore the situation, but that would leave him open for attack and, for some reason Hanzo didn’t care to ponder, he seemed insistent on searching for something in Hanzo’s eyes.

Hanzo decided that he didn’t want to hear his brother monologue. He charged again, bellowing out a war cry as he lunged at his brother. Genji strafed to the left, slashing at his brother’s side as he took a step backward. Hanzo blocked the attack, grimacing at the ringing of clashing steel, before shifting his weight backward. He kicked his foot square into Genji’s stomach and, as Genji let out a strained grunt, followed with an elbow to his brother’s throat. Genji dodged the elbow at the last minute. Genji’s hand was clutching his now presumably bruised stomach as he stumbled backwards and right out of Hanzo’s reach. The elder Shimada tightened his grasp on the handle of his sword, advancing forward to strike another blow. He caught the glint of metal between Genji’s fingers a second before he was hit with a spray of shurikens. One of the shurikens grazed his stomach, another latched itself into his left shoulder, and the last settled into his arm. Hanzo hissed loudly as he instinctively grabbed his shoulder, glaring vehemently at the blood trickling down his arm.

“Genji!” Hanzo yelled, nostrils flaring as he glared holes into his startled brother.

“Hanzo, _please_ ,” Genji said with glistening eyes as he took several steps back. His face was tinted red and he, much to Hanzo’s horror, appeared to be fighting back sobs. “We don’t have to do this. Drop your sword, I’ll do what you want just please stop.” He’s a sniffling coward, Hanzo told himself as he tore out the shurikens that hooked into his flesh, growling as he flung them to the ground. Genji was a pathetic whining child that needed to be brought down, Hanzo assured himself. A spoiled brat who was unsuited to lead the clan and not a beloved brother whose quivering lips made Hanzo’s heart shrivel up.

“If you want me to stop, then help me lead the clan,” Hanzo said as he gripped his bleeding arm.

“I can’t,” Genji cried, his voice cracking as he shook his head to and fro.

“So be it,” Hanzo growled. He let go of his shoulder and moved forward. His brother’s flight instincts took hold and he shot out of the hallway and into the garden. Hanzo sprinted after his brother, his feet pattering furiously upon the soft green grass. The beauty of the secluded sidewalk was lost upon Hanzo as he chased his brother through the garden they used to play in.

He caught up with Genji in the dojo. Genji was in the middle of the room, staring back at him with wide frightened eyes. Hanzo slowed down as he reached the bridge near the doorway. He waltzed across it quietly, head held high as he made his way towards his brother. Behind Genji he could make out the giant hanging scroll hanging underneath the mural of two brothers fighting beside one another, the same mural Genji had always pointed at when they were little with the excited proclamation of, “That’s us! We’ll be just like that one day!”

_How ironic._

When Hanzo walked over the bridge, he began to circle his brother, tightening his grip on his sword whenever it looked like Genji was going to move.

“You’re a disgrace to the clan,” Hanzo chided as dragged his sword across the ground. “Why must you insist upon whoring yourself off in parties while your family suffers in the dark?” Genji flinched, but Hanzo did not stop there. “Did we not love and cherish you? Is this how you’re going to repay the clan for a lifetime of care?” Hanzo wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying nor could he ignore the way Genji’s shaking breaths made him want to scream. He had to remind himself that it didn’t matter how he felt, it didn’t matter that he wanted to cry out and hold his brother. He had a job to do and that was all that mattered.

Privately, Hanzo had hoped Genji would put up a bigger fight. He could conjure up resentment if he was clashing swords with a Genji who jeered and laughed at him. He could cover up his pangs of despair if he could dig up the built up anger over Genji’s freedom and his own lack therefore of. He was not prepared to see Genji clinging onto a sword that was shaking between his two hands, knees knocked together and tears just barely contained. He was not ready to see his brother break down but, then again, when had he ever been ready for the challenges the elders put him through?

Hanzo launched forward and slashed his sword at Genji’s side. His brother stalled the attack and twisted his sword out of the way as he made his own advance.

“Don’t you understand the consequences of your cowardice?” Hanzo snarled as he twisted to the side and made a jab at Genji’s shoulder. Steel clashed together as Genji whipped around and swung his leg at Hanzo’s chest. “You wasted your time at bars drinking yourself into a stupor.” Hanzo caught the leg in an arm lock and made a sweep for Genji’s feet. Mutely, Hanzo realized Genji was aiming to disarm, not kill.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

“You’re a failure!” Genji tipped over, yelping with surprise as he was flung onto his back. “A complete waste of space!” Shurikens appeared between Genji’s fingers. Hanzo heard a swoosh in the air as they flew past by his ducked head. One of them nicked his ear and a drop of blood began to dribble down the side of his face. “You’re nothing!” Hanzo held down Genji’s arms and used his knees to still his brother’s legs. “You’re a toy to your friends, a traitor to the clan-” Hanzo leaned down, his face an inch from Genji who was breathing heavily. “-and a pitiful excuse for a brother.”

Genji roared to life both figuratively and literally. Anger flashed across his eyes as he surged forward and swung his sword at Hanzo. The elder Shimada let out a howl of agony as he felt the steel cut through his side. Blood spluttered onto the ground and Genji whipped his sword in the air, causing several drops to unceremoniously splatter on the wall. Hanzo dug his fingers into his side and sucked in a shaky breath. He peered up at Genji and found himself looking at a total stranger. He saw an enraged bristling man, not the shivering child on the floor mere moments ago.

_That’s more like it._

“Good,” Hanzo said as he rolled his shoulders. “I was getting tired of fighting a frightened child. Prove to me your strength and perhaps you can escape the clan after all.”

The two clashed once more. Genji was far more ferocious than he had been before. He threw his weight into every swing as he let out fearsome war cries. Hanzo had to move to the defensive to escape his brother’s wrath which was a lot harder than he originally anticipated. When they sparred in the past, Genji was the one jumping around the fighting grounds, clinging to the safety of the shadows and striking out only when he thought Hanzo’s back was turn. Now, he was doing the complete opposite. When Hanzo rolled the left, Genji would leap after him. Whenever Hanzo thrusted forward, Genji blocked. When he swung at Genji’s hip, Genji replied with a swipe to his torso. Genji fought with raw untamed emotion that was evident in his eyes that burned like hellfire. Hanzo kept his distance and held his mask as close to him as he could, least it break under the pressure. 

The two of them were splattered red with one another’s blood. Hanzo could feel a large bruise cling to his heaving chest. He was pretty sure he had broken a rib and if his stuttering breath meant anything, there was something wrong with his lungs. Genji did not fare much better. His hair was matted with blood that dripped down onto his face. He leaned on his left leg for support and his arms were shaking uncontrollably. Genji was a superb fighter, there was no doubt in Hanzo’s mind about that; however, he was getting sloppy. He fought with emotion which, while a powerful fuel, made his technique leave much to be desired. He was making stupid mistakes, getting hit when he shouldn’t be, paying attention to Hanzo’s face when he should be looking at where his sword was aimed, and snarling at his brother when he could be slicing him into pieces. Genji was going to be his own doom and that alone made Hanzo want to gag.

“Enough of this!” Hanzo barked suddenly. Genji blinked in temporary shock, looking up at his brother, dumbfounded. “We’re ending this. Now.” Confusion flickered in Genji’s eyes, but once he saw the pinpricks of blue light dance from Hanzo’s tattoo, his face darkened.

“Is this how you plan to end me?” Genji asked coldly. “You plan kill me with the dragons? Does the clan hate me that much?” Hanzo doesn’t—couldn’t even if he tried to— grace Genji with an answer. He raises his sword perpendicularly to his face. Through the drying blood matting the blade, Hanzo can see a distorted reflection of his face. His eyes and mouth are the only parts not completely obscured by the sticky red mess. His lips are swollen and he’s certain he’ll have a nice set of scars once the battle is done. He tries to stir the anger that stewed inside his stomach earlier when Genji claimed he would not benefit from the suffering of others. He wills himself to hate his brother, to despise him for disobeying the elders. When he realized he couldn’t, Hanzo looked away from the blade and turned attention to the light blooming from his arm.

The blue light emitting from his shoulder crawls down Hanzo’s arm. The cool light sparks as it ran down his hand, curling around his fingers as it latched itself to his sword. He moved into an offensive stance: squaring his shoulders and bringing his arms close to his chest as he laid his sword across the crease of his left arm. He felt a shiver of motion underneath his arm like a worm wriggling underneath his skin. The energized wave of cold that had seeped into his arm suddenly flushed into a bristling pool of heat that slowly began to creep downward. He felt the dragons press up against his skin, clawing him from the inside as they waited for sweet release. Hanzo could feel the dragon’s calling card on the tip of his tongue; a simple few words and the majestic beasts would burst from his arm and charge along with him as the three echoed the same battle cry.

Genji raised his sword as well and small green sparks danced off his skin in response. There was no doubt that in anyone’s mind that Genji was as gifted with the sword as he was with his mouth. He was not a force to be trifled with; however, Genji’s neglectance extended to his training as well. Hanzo had trained tireless to be the perfect heir and no matter how talented Genji was with the blade, Hanzo was better. He was adept with both a sword and bow, but the sword was his where he truly shined. Even as he watched the dragons writhe across both his and his brother’s arms in small sparks of brilliant light, he could see that Genji’s stance was slacking. He would put up a good fight for sure, but the winner was already clear.

Feeling a rush of confidence, Hanzo steadied himself as a blue stream of light crawled down to his sword. Heated glowing power surged through his arm as the dragons slowly began to peek outside of his arm. Glorious blue locks emerged from the tattoo, emanating an ephemeral blue light that softly lit up Hanzo’s chest before dispersing as the dragon’s mane disappeared back into Hanzo’s flesh. He could feel the dragons stir in anticipation as though they were eager to tear apart the man who dared to disturb the order of the clan. Were he not suppressing the emotions bubbling in his chest, Hanzo might have been horrified that the dragons would be so eager to tear apart another Shimada, but if the dragons called for blood then he would honor the call. 

Opening his mouth, Hanzo began to shout the words that bound him to the dragons. A blue haze materialized in the room as two massive writhing forms appeared out of thin air. He could see the dragons great heads appear in front of him. Their great jaws parted open, showing an array of sharp teeth. The apparitions wiggled into the material world and, as Hanzo lifted up his sword, he began to move forward, urging the dragons to—

 _Don’t_.

It was a soft whisper, clear as day, that made Hanzo pause. _Don’t_ , a second voice asserted. The voices were both strange and familiar at the same time. It was as though Hanzo had heard them once before, but he couldn’t quite remember where. _Don’t_ , both voices reminded him in unison, more sternly this time. “Don’t what?” Hanzo wanted to ask. He didn’t exactly have the time, nor the patience, to contemplate the cryptic warning.

Hanzo was tempted to brush off the voices as figments of his imagination and continue to fight, but that was when he looked up and saw that the dragons weren’t looking at Genji. They were both staring at him. Hanzo found himself being stared down by four large pupiless eyes that held something within them Hanzo never would have expected to see in a dragon—a plea. Within the instant of meeting the dragons’ gaze, the world seemed to stop. Hanzo’s mask shattered.

He had left the council room with the intent to talk his brother down or dispose of him, but the weight of the decision suddenly hit him full on. Waves upon waves of memories washed over him as the crippling dread he had been holding back flooded his senses. He remembered when he and Genji were little, way back when Father’s training regimes only took up a part of their day. Hanzo and Genji would run around the house, squealing with delight as they scampered about with no idea of the future that laid before them. He saw Genji’s bright goofy smile, the one that stretched from ear to ear. Genji was a beacon of joy back then and Hanzo wanted nothing more than to keep that grin permanently glued to his brother’s face.

He couldn’t take that away. The mere thought of erasing the smile that he had protected for so long made Hanzo’s heart ache. He would never forgive himself if he killed Genji nor did he think he would deserve forgiveness for such an act. How could he properly stand as the head of the clan when he was despicable enough to take someone so wonderful from the world? Hell, he didn’t even think the clan needed Genji dead like the elders claimed it did. Sure, Genji was disrespectful and caused the clan more than enough headaches, but he wasn’t a threat. He was a thorn in the clan’s side, but he was a small insignificant thorn that could do little more than cause minor discomfort which could be easily ignored in the wake of something more deadly. Isn’t that why Father had protected Genji for so long? Isn’t that why Hanzo protected him?

Hanzo’s head was beginning to spin as his mind clouded with emotion. His thoughts were racing a mile an hour and his attention was anywhere but the battle. The dragons stared him down, blue eyes drowning him in a cascade of unwanted feelings. _Don’t_ , came the voices in a soft gentle tone. Hanzo’s senses were overloading and although he could hear Genji screaming aloud, he made no movement to attack or defend himself. His chest felt like it was going to burst, his mind was swarming and he just couldn’t think.

Hanzo’s body made the decision before he could properly think of a rational response. Bellowing out a frantic cry, Hanzo tossed his sword to the side, watching as it slide across the sleek floor. The dragons, with no power anchoring them, faded from view. Their angelic serpentine forms began to evaporate into a thin blue mist. Hanzo saw something flicker within the eyes of the heavenly beasts. It was a fleeting emotion that lasted only for a moment before the dragons completely receded from sight. Within those great ancient eyes, Hanzo saw something akin to approval, gratitude perhaps, for doing what was right. He could feel the corners of his lips twitch up and, for just a moment, he forgot about the battle. He had gained the dragons’ blessing and if that didn’t elevate his spirits, albeit only a little, then he didn’t know what would.

The small surge of elation disappeared as soon as it had arrived as soon as Hanzo heard Genji’s ferocious roar. Startled, Hanzo lowered his gaze from where the dragons had been to see his brother advancing towards him with his sword raised. Behind him, Hanzo could see the ghostly green dragon howling with Genji as the young Shimada raced towards his brother. Hanzo realized that he couldn’t counter the attack even if he tried. His sword was too far away to collect and close-range combat was out of the question. He met his brother’s eyes and all he saw was Genji’s eyes dark with pure rage. For the first time since he was twelve, Hanzo feared for his life.  

When the sword first came down, the dragon went with it. The blade slashed straight through Hanzo’s right shoulder and, as though the blade was directing its movement, the dragon followed. Hanzo felt a dull, if not oddly cold, throbbing in his shoulder that grew into a hot sharp aching pain that shot through his nerves like a bullet. The dragons screamed into his ear as it raked its claws down into the open wound. Everywhere the dragon touched his skin was set aflame. Blood gushed out of the wound and Hanzo howled with pain as he stumbled backwards.

He couldn’t pinpoint where Genji hit next. His stomach gushed with fire a few seconds before pain seared his abdomen as though claws engulfed in flame had just ripped his chest open. He fell over on his back screaming as the pain spread to his shaking legs. With each wave, the pain intensified, lulling Hanzo into a petrified state. It felt like acid was coursing through his veins, burning every inch of his body. His agonized screams only increased in volume as more holes opened up along his body in rhythm with the swinging sword. He writhed on the ground, whimpering as pathetically as Father had in the hospital bed as Genji and his dragon mangled his body. Faintly, Hanzo thought he could hear a voice hissing something into his ear. He couldn’t tell whose voice it was, but he did know what it was chanting. _Traitor_ , the voice growled as the sword went down again and again. _Traitor, traitor, traitor_.

The blows eventually stopped and the green dragon dissipated in the air. Hanzo was on his side, curled up into a ball with his eyes squeezed shut. He laid in an ever increasing pool of his own blood. It felt like his entire body had been dropped into molten lava and he had just managed to crawl his way to the surface and out of the fiery hell. His face felt like he had gotten a handful of lashes from a whip and his arm, specifically his left one, felt as though there was a fire dancing on top of it. His torso was particularly mangled and, like the rest of his body, was bleeding profusely. It was a blessing he couldn’t feel his legs and, thankfully, his right arm only felt sore, if not tingly, compared to the rest of his body.

His ears were ringing like a gunshot had gone off and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. His skin was unusually cold and clammy to the touch—which was quite strange considering that Hanzo felt like he was burning up on the inside—and he began to feel nauseous. Hanzo dared to peek an eye open to steal a glance at his brother. He was standing less than a foot away, chest heaving as he stared down at his brother. The unadulterated aggression upon Genji’s face made Hanzo want to look away.

Genji’s eyebrow twitched as he looked down at Hanzo. His expression began to shift rapidly from hatred to furrowed brows of confusion to wide-eyed realization and finally to gaping horror. Genji dropped his sword, covering his mouth in horror as it clattered onto the floor. He stared at his brother in mute terror for several long seconds. Hanzo averted his gaze as he rolled over onto his right side so he could pick himself up. He managed to lift himself off the ground an inch before he suddenly collapsed onto the ground again. In dull confusion, Hanzo glanced down at his side only to realize that although he felt his right arm, he did not necessarily have one. It was so strange to look stump that replaced his arm, knowing that the arm wasn’t there but feeling the non-existent blood pump through it. He tried wiggling his toes and suddenly realized that he couldn’t feel anything beneath his waist.

“Oh no, no, no.” Genji was biting his knuckles, a habit of his that kicked in whenever he was anxious or nervous. “Y-You’re not… Fuck me, this isn’t happening.” Hanzo could hear Genji move closer. He was breathing heavily still, but his breaths were cut short by his sobs. Hanzo’s entire body shuddered fiercely whenever he tried to breath which was quite annoying considering that he was having a very hard time taking in oxygen as it was.

“Han, please get up.” The last time Genji had called him Han was right before a trip with his uncle; a trip that had been the first step into down spiral of the brothers’ relationship. The fact that Genji was using that nickname again in a moment of desperation meant a lot. How many times did he have to cut himself off to stop himself from saying that nickname aloud. Did it hurt his feelings when he remembered that he and his brother would never be the same. Had he wanted to remedy the wrongs of the past and reconcile with Hanzo?

Hanzo snorted involuntarily, but the snort came out more as an quivering groan that was further concealed by the blood bubbling out of Hanzo’s mouth. Genji kneeled down beside Hanzo. “Please. Please tell me you’re-” A hand rested on Hanzo’s shoulder and he flinched away from the unexpected touch. The hand retreated immediately and he heard Genji took in a sharp breath.

“Oh God, Hanzo I’m so sorry.” Genji was sobbing, not quiet like earlier but loud and with a nasally quality to it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, brother. I’m sorry.” Genji reached for Hanzo again, scooping his arms underneath his brother’s back. Hanzo flinched again, but he didn’t jerk away as hard. Genji froze, but eventually cradled his brother into his arm, pulling him onto his lap. Hanzo’s breathing became more irregular, coming in long and short intakes at differing intervals. Genji’s sobs were getting stronger and his entire body began shivering as though he was cold.

Through his blurring sight, Hanzo could see tears streaming down his brother’s eyes. Hanzo attempted to raise his right hand, but, after remembering his recent lost, changed his mind and lifted his left hand instead. Genji stopped breathing as Hanzo gently wiped tears off his cheek with his shaking thumb that brushed across Genji’s cheek. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, maybe on the lines of, “Hush brother, don’t cry now,” or maybe, “Father said real men don’t cry, remember?” but most likely not, “I’m not worth shedding tears over,” Hanzo’s voice was little more than a scratchy hiss so he decided to remain silent.

Genji, on the other hand, could not seem to shut up. He began to babble when Hanzo touched his cheek. He grabbed Hanzo’s hand and squeezed it as hard as he could without hurting him. More tears began to pour out of Genji’s eyes, much to Hanzo’s displeasure, as he lowered his forehead to meet Hanzo’s. Hanzo could feel the hot tears pouring out of Genji’s eyes splash onto his face. Genji kept reciting the same words over and over again, an apologetic incantation of some sort.

“I’m sorry,” Genji would say. “I don’t want to hurt you. I love you. Please don’t go. I can’t live without you.” He kept whispering those words as he pushed strands of hair out of Hanzo’s face so he could kiss his forehead. Hanzo was the one bleeding to death on the floor but it was Genji who was shaking like a leaf. It was Genji who kept apologizing for defending himself, it was Genji who pressed their foreheads together as he apologized ceaselessly and begged Hanzo to not make him an only brother. Despite how much Hanzo wanted to reach up a wrap his arm around Genji’s shoulders in comfort, the eldest Shimada could not respond to his brother’s insistent pleas. Instead, he closed his eyes and gave Genji’s hand a small squeeze, helplessly listening to the small panicked cries of, “Dammit Han, open your eyes! Look at me, will you? Don’t you dare leave me behind. Don’t you dare leave me…”

The chant of apologies ended abruptly. Hanzo desperately wanted to open his eyes to see what had made Genji’s body go so rigid, but his eyelids felt as though there were weights attached to them. Genji was still holding Hanzo up, but his touch grew stiff as the sound of footsteps grew closer. Though his ears were pounding and his head felt like it was split open, Hanzo could register a stern cold voice speaking aloud.

“What happened?” Hanzo quickly recognized the voice as Hana. He was glad he couldn’t open his eyes; the last thing he wanted to see was Hana’s disapproving found as she shook her head at him incredulously. Above him, Hanzo could hear Genji sniff loudly as he tried to piece together his sob-induced words into a coherent explanation. Although Hanzo was right beside to Genji, he didn’t quite catch everything his brother said. His voice kept fading in and out in rhythm with the pounding in Hanzo’s head.

“I d-didn’t mean to!” Genji said in a desperate voice. “He came to my room....we argued over why I should....the sword went straight through his shoulder....please we need to take him to the hospital....he’s not going to....” Genji kept talking, but Hanzo didn’t hear it all. He could feel Genji’s sobs wrack through his body and, in an attempt to soothe his worries, gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“He’s stronger than you,” Hana suddenly said in a matter-of-fact tone. “How did he lose?” Genji stopped babbling as Hana spoke.

“What?” Genji said, confusion evident in his tone. Hana sighed in annoyance and, with the tone one might use when speaking to a toddler, she said, “Your brother’s more proficient with the sword than you are....the fight was in his favor, and yet....you are the one who won....how did that come to be?” For the first time since Hanzo entered the room that night, it was quiet. He could still hear Genji sobbing, but it was more controlled now. If he were to open his eyes now, Hanzo had doubt in his mind that he would see the gears whirring in Genji’s mind as he tried to pinpoint the exact moment he gained the upper hand.

“We both called upon the dragons,” Genji finally said as he slowly picked over his memory, reviewed it as he began to unravel the truth. Hanzo strained to listen, but it was getting harder to pay attention with every passing second. “Hanzo summoned his first. I saw the twin two dragons appear....h-he looked them in the eyes and he then he just-” Genji paused and Hanzo was sure he was looking down at him. “He....threw his sword away....didn’t move when I attacked....he let me win.” Genji went stiff once more. He repeated the phrase, “He let me win.” again, more slowly. Another sob ripped through Genji’s throat. His cool forehead met Hanzo’s and tears began to dribble down onto Hanzo’s face followed by the soft chant of “I’m sorry.”

Hanzo had nearly forgotten that he and Genji weren’t the only ones in the room. Both brothers were so absorbed with one another, neither of them realized one of the guards stroll over towards them. Genji let out a startled cry as the guard moved her hands underneath Hanzo’s back. Defensively, Genji tightly pulled Hanzo onto his chest with an iron-like grasp. The quick movement made Hanzo gasp with pain which, in turn, made Genji loosen his grip in panic.

“Give him to me,” the guard ordered with an outstretched hand. Genji stilled at those words, refusing to budge for several heartbeats before reluctantly letting Hanzo out of his grasp. Almost immediately Hanzo wished the guard wasn’t touching him. Compare to Genji’s tender hands that held him firmly, but not unkindly, the guard picked Hanzo up like he was a sack of potatoes. He grunted with pain as he was lifted into the guard’s arms. Genji gasped aloud but whatever the guard did, frown or maybe glare at him, stopped him from retrieving his brother from the guard’s arms.

“Can I come with you?” Genji asked as the guard swung around and began walking towards the entrance.

“You want to watch?” The surprise in Hana’s voice caught Hanzo off guard. He had never heard her sound so unsure of herself before and he highly doubted anyone else in the room had either. Confusion appeared to be on both parties for when Genji asked, “What do you mean watch? Aren’t you taking him to the hospital?” his voice sounded just as befuddled. There was a heartbeat of hesitation before Hana cackled. The way her normally grainy voice turned hideously shrill and echoed throughout the room when she laughed was unprecedented. Hanzo could not help but wince at the dreadful sound.

“I knew we left you out of the loop for a lot of things but goodness me!” Hana’s cackle died down into a ghastly chuckle that was only a smidgen less pleasant to hear. “Never would I imagined you to be this naive! He—” Hanzo was sure she was pointing at him. “—failed his duty. He’s a disgrace to the clan and must be treated as such. While the guards dispose of the body, you and I can head to the council room so we—”

“Dispose?” Genji squawked in outrage. “You’re just going to throw him out like a piece of garbage?” Hanzo could practically see Hana rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“Oh please Genji, don’t make a fuss about this,” Hana said condescendingly. “He disobeyed direct orders and for that he must pay.”

“With his life?” Genji countered. The fear that had previously dominated his voice was now replaced by the anger he had a few minutes ago. Hanzo imagined Genji’s entire body shaking furiously just like it always did when he found himself at the end of a losing argument.

“Yes,” Hana snapped back. Vaguely, Hanzo realized her voice was closer now. The guard carrying Hanzo now stood next to Hana, presumably waiting for her to finish speaking before moving on. The elder cleared her throat before continuing. “He knew the consequences of failure from the very beginning. If he really did let you win, then he did so knowing he was forfeiting his life.” She paused as though to mull over her thoughts. “You are the heir to the Shimada clan now,” she asserted. She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince Genji of his status as heir. “It is your duty to step up in his stead. We’ll need to make up a cover story for your brother’s death, but once that’s done—”

Hana was interrupted mid-way into her speech by Genji who snarled before launching himself at her. Hanzo heard the other guards rush to Genji, holding him in place and out of the elder’s reach. Genji made good use of his colorful vocabulary as he began shouting death threats at Hana. Although the rage in Genji’s voice was very much real and, if they were in any other situation, Genji would have been able to slice through the guards like they made of air, he wasn’t a real threat. Hanzo could hear the exhaustion in his brother’s voice and, knowing that he had tossed his sword away after Hanzo fell, he knew that all Genji couldn’t accomplish anything more than feebly batting his hands against guards who could very easily take him down in his weakened state. Genji was all bark and no bite in a quite literal sense.

Besides a disgruntled snort, Hana appeared unaffected by Genji’s words. Instead, she calmly walked over to where Hanzo dangled limply in the arms of one of the guards. It was amazing how she could completely ignore Genji who was screaming at the top of his lungs. Hana leaned down close enough for Hanzo to feel her nose tickling his ear. He could practically see the sly smirk growing on her voice as she spoke in a low sweet voice.

“I’m disappointed in you, we all are,” she said softly. “We groomed you for greatness your entire life and this is how you repay us? With failure?” Hana paused, as though waiting for Hanzo to reply. Even if he did have the capability to respond, he would have been too overwhelmed to answer properly. Sensing that he was not going to reply, Hana let out an airy huff that made Hanzo shiver as he felt her hot breath brush into his ear.

“Do the clan one last favor and die like the dog you are.” Were he not struggling to breath as it were, Hanzo’s breath would have been knocked out of his body at those words. Hana reeled backwards, dismissing the guard holding Hanzo as she turned her attention back to the problem at hand. The guard wasted no time in hauling Hanzo out of the room and outside. As the two moved further away, Hanzo could hear the desperate echoing cries of his brother as he tried to push his exhausted body past the guards and to his brother who was being carried away to his death.

Despite knowing the guard was taking him to slaughter, Hanzo felt at peace or, at least, as much at peace a person in extraordinary pain could be. You deserve this, his mind reminded him. Self-hatred wasn’t anything new to Hanzo. The dark whispers in the back of his head had always been there. They grew in intensity with every passing day and it had gotten to the point where Hanzo couldn’t simply ignore them. Was he not the heir who couldn’t figure out how to be the son Father wanted? Was he not the one who drove Mother away? Was he not the reason Genji needed booze and parties to smile? Was he not the one who tore his family apart? For every mistake he made, he had a  thousand regrets.  If the clan was going to gut him like a pig before throwing his corpse off in some desolate hole where no one would ever find him, then so be it. He’d embrace death with open arms if it meant he wouldn’t end hurt anyone he loved every again.

“Poor bastard,” the guard said underneath her breath, startling Hanzo out of his thoughts. She must have felt him shiver uncontrollably or perhaps she noticed how his shuddering breaths were coming in shorter bouts. “I didn’t realize the dragons could do _this_.” There was a strange mixture of horror and awe in her voice as though she wasn’t sure what to feel. “I’ll make it quick. It’s the least you deserve.” It was a small courtesy, one Hanzo did fully understand until he heard the gentle undertone of the guard’s voice. Regardless of what her orders might be, the guard was loyal to the Shimada clan and now she was being ordered to kill one of the people she was sworn to protect. She’d follow orders—everyone knew of the dire consequences that came with disobeying a Shimada—but that didn’t mean she had to be cruel while doing so. It was a kindness Hanzo did not expect to find in his last moments. It was funny really, he was about to die and the one person who was showing him any form of sympathy was his executor.

Hanzo found himself giving a small nod as the guard twisted her arm in an awkward position in an attempt to keep Hanzo safely draped in her arms as she slide open what he presumed to be a door. There was a faint swishing sound as the guard yanked the _shōji_ ajar. The guard made her way into the room and shut the door behind her. Almost immediately the sharp scent of chemicals drifted into Hanzo’s nostrils. An agitated hiss escaped his lips as the guard hoisted him onto a considerably cold metal table. Hanzo gasped in shock as his skin make contact with the cool surface, coughing as he attempted to fold his arms across his chest to conserve what little warmth his body provided. He was once again reminded of the loss of his right arm and, in a small fit, he growled as he dug what nails he had into his chest.

A little ways away, he could hear the guard shuffle away followed by the sound of a drawer being pulled open and the clinking of metal. The guard rummaged in the drawer for several minutes, picking her preferred instrument carefully, before scooting back over to Hanzo. He held his breath as he felt cool metal press into his neck. The blade dug into his skin, causing a small stream of blood to dribbled down his neck. Internally, Hanzo told himself not to panic. He tried to relax into the blade so he could accept the death he deserved, but his body stayed tense and refused to move. “Just do it,” Hanzo wanted to scream, but his voice refused to return to him.

_The sooner this is over, the better._

The knife never pressed further into his skin. In fact, much to Hanzo’s surprise, the blade was pulled back, clattering onto the table as the guard abruptly pulled back. There was a faint static-like noise that drew the guard’s attention away from the table.

“What do you mean the grounds are under attack?” the guard hissed aloud. “I’m a little busy! Can’t you bother someone else?” A pause and then, “Oh you know me, I’m not doing anything terribly important. I just have the heir to the entire goddamn clan ready to get gutted on the table behind me. Did you not hear what was going down tonight?” Another pause, longer this time. “Yes! Who the hell else would it be?” The guard was practically barking at that point. It was then Hanzo realized that she was talking into an earpiece. Why else would she temporarily abandon her job to ramble out in the open?

“Do I have to repeat myself?” the guard said as she began pacing back and forth. “There was a fight between the brothers and one of them got badly hurt. The elders can’t have them both alive so now I have to drop everything I’m doing and slit Hanzo _fucking_ Shimada’s throat before-”

For what felt like the thousandth interruption that day, the guard cut off by the door being flung open. Whatever words the guard was going to say died in her throat as the sound six shots rang in the air. It sounded as though thunder was booming in the room. The deafening noise reverberated through Hanzo’s ears and for several seconds, he could hear nothing but the echoing ring in his head. He didn’t hear the guard’s body flop onto the floor, but the harsh scent of gunpowder definitely caught Hanzo’s attention, especially since it somehow made his raging headache even worse. Someone let out a long whistle as they (was that spurs Hanzo heard as they took several steps forward?) stepped into the room.

“Well I’ll be,” the newcomer said in a southern drawl that Hanzo thought only people in movies had. The stranger was a man if his deep voice was any indicator of his gender. The man _tsked_ before picking up what Hanzo assumed was the guard’s earpiece and crushed it underneath his shoes.

“Alex,” the man said as he began to stroll around the room. “I followed one of the guards to a hidden room in the estate. Bit of a doozy to get in; there was a hidden panel and everything.” The man began to pace about, his back to Hanzo as he examined the room. “You sure there’s somethin’ in here? I get the whole shabam with stakin’ the place out while some rival gets frisky with the Shimadas, but I’m not going to lie to you, man. I’m just not sure there is anything—holy shit.”

There was no doubt in Hanzo’s mind that the stranger was staring at him. For the first time since he closed his eyes, Hanzo suddenly found the strength to open them. A pained grunt escaped his throat as he shifted his head, slowly cracking his eyes open to see just who this stranger was. The first thing he noticed was  just how blurry his vision was. It took several moments for his eyes to focus well enough for him to actual see more than blotches of color. His eyes landed on was the guard on the floor laying in a pool of her own blood first. She was faced down, her chest riddled with six holes that were all centered towards the center of her torso. Hanzo wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about her death, after all, she did just try to kill him, but once his gaze darts upward, all thoughts of the guard disappear.

Whenever Hanzo had heard the term “cowboy” in the past, it was always from Genji who had gone through a phase where he simply adored the idea of men with ridiculous outfits dispensing justice wherever they went and then riding off into the sunset, on horses no less. Hanzo had found the notion of cowboys absurd and utterly outdated; he was baffled when Genji had expressed his interest in them and he had been relieved when Genji moved on. The man in front of Hanzo could only be described as a wide-eyed cowboy. His vision was too blurry to make out the man’s facial details, but Hanzo would have to of been blind to not seen the cowboy hat and obscenely large belt buckle on the cowboy’s person.

The whole situation was utterly ludicrous. Between nearly killing his brother only to be sliced up instead, the dead guard who was just about the end his life, and the startled cowboy who had taken hers, Hanzo couldn’t help but smile. For the second time that day, Hanzo laughed. Unlike before when a throbbing pain grew in chest as he laughed, Hanzo’s laughter felt more natural. His condition enabled him to produce a quiet chuckle and nothing more, but it was a genuine chuckle that felt sweet upon his lips. He could hear the cowboy catch his breath at the sound which only made him want to laugh harder. Unfortunately, his body decided to remind Hanzo of  his inevitable demise. His chuckle dissolved into a sputtering cough that sent shivers through his body. He grimaced, curling his body inward as the coughing began more profuse.

“Hold on there partner,” the cowboy said as he rushed to Hanzo’s side, inspecting his body closely. “I—shit, you shouldn’t be awake. This looks painful as hell.” “You have no idea,” Hanzo wanted to say. Another round of coughing came out instead and concern swept across the cowboy’s face. “Hey now,” the cowboy said softly as he grasped Hanzo’s hand. Before he realized what he was doing, Hanzo’s fingers wrapped around the cowboy’s in compliance. The cowboy dipped his free arm underneath Hanzo’s shoulder and propped him up. “Look at me, will ya?” Hanzo obeyed, furrowing his brows as he rolled his gaze upwards. He still couldn’t make out the cowboy’s features very well, but he did recognize the sight of the brown eyes filled with worry that meet his. It’s alarming just how warm the cowboy’s eyes are. They were so incredibly inviting, entirely too soothing for someone who just shot a woman six times in the chest without hesitation.

“There you are,” the cowboy said, gracing Hanzo with a grin that encompases his entire face. It’s a strangely familiar grin, one that stretches from ear to ear in an almost cartoonish fashion. He doesn’t recall where he saw the grin before until he feels the cowboy gently swipe away a tear (when did he start crying?) off of Hanzo’s cheek. It’s Genji’s smile, specifically the same goofy smile he wore through his childhood. The cowboy was in the exact same position Genji was in less than twenty minutes ago. Genji was probably still back in the dojo with Hana and her guards thinking that his Hanzo was dead that he was the reason his brother was dead. Hanzo’s eyelids suddenly felt heavy and he looked away, closing his eyes as he tried to suppress another round of heaving coughs.

“Whoa there, don’t look away from me, buddy,” Hanzo heard the cowboy say, but was it really the cowboy saying it? Genji had said something of the same caliber not too long ago when he was cradling his dying brother in his arms. “I’m not letting you go, y’hear?” Hanzo’s grip on his consciousness began to fade. He could feel the cowboy’s grip tightened as his hand went limp. The cowboy’s voice became distant, but he could hear the desperation in his words.

"Don’t you drift off now! Open your eyes dammit, open your eyes!” The cowboy had no right sounding so despondent. Hanzo had never met the man his entire life but there he was, begging for him to stay conscious like they knew each other for ages. Hanzo would have been more suspicious of the whole situation if he could think straight. The cowboy continued to command him but, alas, Hanzo could not muster the strength to obey. With the last precious seconds of consciousness, Hanzo’s thoughts drifted to Genji and he wondered if his brother was still in that room, being held back by guards as he cried out his brother’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took an embarrassingly long time to make. I came up with the idea for this during a late night Skype call with a friend. I actually wrote up to 12k before deciding I needed to rewrite the entire thing if you can believe it. Just as a head's up, this is going to be very slow when it comes to relationship building and character appearances. Be prepared to buckle in for a long ride, folks!


	2. Another Day

When Hanzo became aware of his surroundings again, he went into a full-on panic. He awoke without warning, eyes fluttering open as he gasped for breath. Instinctively, he clutched his chest as he desperately began to search the room for some semblance of familiarity. He felt his heart race as he realized that he had clue as to where he was. Bordering on the edge of hysteria, Hanzo tried to reposition himself so he could swing his legs off the side of the bed and get up, but when he tried to push himself up, he fell back onto the bed with an undignified _oof_. His gaze was pulled down to his right arm or rather the fleshy stub that acted as his new appendage. As though a switch had been flipped, memories of what happened at the estate flooded Hanzo’s mind. Everything from the elders’ orders, the confrontation with Genji, and the cowboy’s misplaced concern swamped Hanzo’s senses. He leaned back into the bed, staring mutely at the wall as he tried to pick up the pieces of his scrambled mind.

He barely noticed the panicked nurse who came running to tend to the erratically beeping machines whose presence Hanzo had yet to recognize. She began to babble in a language he did not understand (German perhaps?) as she checked the heart monitor standing by the side of his bed. She stayed in the room for several minutes, tapping the screens of the various machines around the room and writing down onto a notepad before slipping away. It was only when Hanzo heard the soft click of the door did he gain enough composure to properly examine his surroundings.

He was in a white sterile room with little furnishing beyond the bed he was laying it and a white desk on the other side of the room. There were numerous machines around the bed and nearly all of them had some sort tube sticking out of it and into Hanzo. Particularly, he took note of large square machine and the mask settled upon his face. He could hear his own distorted breathing through said mask that appeared to be connected to what appeared to be an long horizontal machine with a screen attached to the top. His entire body ached like hell. Moving around appeared to be key in worsening the pain which only made the urge to move stronger.

Looking down, Hanzo noted that he had been changed out of his bloodied _kyudo-gi_. A plain white hospital gown a size or two too big adorned his body. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in some sort of medical facility. What bothered Hanzo was that the room looking nothing like the hospital rooms in Hanamura that he had become accustomed to from his few visits to it. He might have been more relaxed with the knowledge that he was being taken care of if he had even the faintest idea of where he was.

Just as began to awkwardly smooth down ruffled crevasses of his gown with his single hand, the door opened once more. Recognition flickered in his eyes as he watched a young woman around his age  quietly shut the door behind her. Although tracking how much time had passed since Hanzo first fainted was an impossible feat, he could recall waking up on several occasions. He kept swimming in and out of consciousness with little to no idea what was happening around him in those few precious pockets of awareness, but among the times he was aware of his surroundings, Hanzo remembered seeing the same blonde woman currently standing before him. He could never comprehend her honeyed words, but she had always spoken kindly which Hanzo could appreciate to a small extent.

The woman—a doctor if her white jacket was any indication of her occupation—apparently did not think Hanzo would be awake for when she looked up from the clipboard in her hand, her eyes went wide with surprise.

“Oh! I didn’t think you’d be awake,” she said with a smile. The confusion that had briefly flickered across her face disappeared as quickly as it had come. She grabbed the white spinning stool from the nearby desk and dragged it closer to the bed. She pressed her feet on the bottom bar of the stool as she settled into the chair, smiling all the while. “I suppose I haven’t properly introduced myself to you, have I?” The woman asked. She was speaking in English, fluent and with hint of an accent. It was one of the languages Father had insisted on having his sons learn to become fluent in.

 _Thank God for that_.

Hanzo blinked at the stranger and, after several silent seconds, shook his head.

“That’s fine,” the woman reassured him with a wave of her hand. “We can start from the top. I’m Dr. Angela Ziegler and I have been entrusted with your care for three weeks now.” She pulled out a blue pen from the pocket of her jacket and glanced up from her clipboard expectedly. “Let’s start with the basics. How are you feeling?” It was a simple question that on any other day Hanzo would have been able to answer with ease. Of course, most days weren’t preceded by a near death experience, a near death experience that had apparently happened three weeks prior. Hanzo tightly clutched the bed sheet between curled fingers, his eyes darting to the side. How was he even supposed to answer that question? He definitely wasn’t in as much pain as he was before, but he wasn’t exactly fine either. Hanzo found himself dumbfounded, grasping for some form of an acceptable answer.

“Alive,” Hanzo said, blinking in surprise when he heard the voice far too raspy to be his own. Dr. Ziegler attempted to hide the slight down curve of her lips, but she did so in an extraordinary poor manner.

“That’s okay,” she said with a small nod as she began jotting something down on her clipboard. It was blatantly obvious that she had wanted Hanzo to settle upon a more upbeat answer, but Hanzo couldn’t be bothered to correct himself. “It’s a miracle that you’re alive,” Dr. Ziegler said as she continued to write on her clipboard. “Had our agent arrived a moment later, I’m not sure you’d still be with us. You faded in and out of consciousness several times when you arrived here. The last you woke up was about a week ago or so. I wasn’t sure if—” Dr. Ziegler stopped herself mid-sentence. She looked up from her clipboard with an amiable grin that failed to mask the implication of her words. “I’m very glad you’re awake, Mr. Shimada.”

 _You shouldn’t be alive_ is what Dr. Ziegler didn’t say, but Hanzo heard her anyway. He shouldn’t be alive and no amount of sugarcoating was going to make him ignorant to that fact. Figures that the strange doctor who was keeping him captive would end up acting as cordial as possible by trying to sweep every little problem under the rug. Now that Hanzo was awake, it was about time he got some answers.

“Where…” Hanzo had to pause, licking his mouth to moisten his dry lips before continuing. “Where are we and....how did I get here?” His throat felt incredibly tight, almost like a snake had constricted itself around his neck and was squeezing the life out of him. He attempted to raise his hand to grasp his neck, but the movement proved to be far more exhausting than he had originally anticipated. Halfway up, Hanzo gave up on the endeavor, his hand collapsing back onto the bed as he closed his eyes in defeat. He could hear Dr. Ziegler shift in her seat, evidently uncomfortable with his discomfort which, in itself, was a ridiculous notion. She stayed quiet for several moments and it was only when Hanzo opened his eyes again did she reply to this question.

“Currently, we’re residing in the medical wing of Watchpoint: Rarotonga,” Dr. Ziegler explained as she gently placed her clipboard in her lap. Before she could continue, Hanzo let out a disgruntled huff.

“Overwatch,” he hissed airily, narrowing his gaze. The international peace organization was the only major institution who used watchpoints. Overwatch had been a nuisance to the Shimada clan ever since the end of the Omnic Crisis with the way it chased off potential clients by interrupting private meetings and pillaging major storage houses, confiscating not only illegal goods but the lives of the guards protecting the cargo. Hanzo couldn’t help but feel apprehensive once he realized he had fallen straight into the hands of the enemy. Dr. Ziegler, no doubt sensing the change in the atmosphere, adjusted accordingly.

“Yes, we are in an Overwatch facility,” Dr. Ziegler confirmed and, seeing that Hanzo was about to say something, quickly added, “but, I promise you that my affiliation with Overwatch will not affect how I treat you by any means.” There must have been a disbelieving look on Hanzo’s voice because Dr. Ziegler felt it was necessary to add, “The care of my patients is more important than whatever personal or political issue my colleagues may have with you. Your health is what I’m concerned about and I promise you that no harm will come to you while you’re under my protection.” There was a tinge of sincerity in Dr. Ziegler’s voice that Hanzo had not expected to hear from the enemy. The sheer look of veracity in her eyes did not betray a hidden agenda or any sign of clandestine deceit. Dr. Ziegler, a woman who should by all means be pulling out the plugs of Hanzo’s life support, genuinely cared about him so much that she was willing to stick out her neck for him. Hanzo, having no idea what  to do with the new information, meekly nodded for Dr. Ziegler to go with her explanation.

“One of our subdivisions had an operation based in Hanamura,” Dr. Ziegler continued, unable to hide the sweet smile that grew on her lips. “An agent investigating—” Hanzo noted how she avoiding the term “spying”, “—the Shimada estate arrived on the grounds the same time a rival organization launched an attack. The agent used the attack as a means of cover so he further her investigation. He spotted a guard carrying you out to a secluded area of the estate. The agent followed the guard to a hidden room the guard had taken you and, after realizing who you were, secured your body soon after. The medic in the operation tended to your wounds while they flew you here. I was stationed in the mainland when I heard of the incident and arrived at this watchpoint as soon as I heard. As stated before, you have been here for three weeks where I and the other doctors of this watchpoint have taken care of you.”

Hanzo remained quiet throughout Dr. Ziegler’s explanation and, once she finished, he diverted his gaze, squeezing the bed sheet firmly as he tried to gather his thoughts. Obviously, Dr. Ziegler didn’t see him as a threat or she was such a credulous individual that she could not foresee Hanzo turning against her. Neither option was particularly appealing which just made Hanzo all the more anxious. Hanzo knew who the agent the doctor spoke of was. He could conjure the cowboy’s worried brown eyes and preposterously captivating grin in his mind with relative ease. Were his mind not preoccupied with more pressing matters, Hanzo might have spared the cowboy a thought or two, perhaps even speculate on his whereabouts.

What Hanzo was more concerned about was exactly how he had been transported to Watchpoint: Rarotonga without bleeding out and why Overwatch had spent so much time and effort into keeping him alive. He wasn’t a fool, Hanzo recognized a few of the machines looming over his bed from his visits to Father’s room when he had fallen ill. Overwatch was slapping down fat wads of cash to keep his organs pumping when they should have let the guard slit his throat peacefully. Not to mention, Rarotonga was in the Cook islands which, if Hanzo remembered correctly, was about a half a day’s flight from Hanamura. Hanzo didn’t care how prestigious Overwatch was, one measly medic on a spying operation couldn’t possibly be equipped with the technology to preserve someone in Hanzo’s condition unless someone had dropped some serious money on medical equipment for them to use. There were far too many unanswered questions for Hanzo’s liking which raised more than a few red flags in his head.

“Why would you....bother keeping me alive?” Hanzo asked, shifting in his bed uncomfortably (even the bed was made from distressingly high-grade material; just how much money were they going to spend on him?) Dr. Ziegler chuckled—actually laughed!—at the question. Hanzo flared his nostrils as he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Dr. Ziegler covered her mouth with her hand as she tried to stifle her giggling.

“Forgive me,” Dr. Ziegler said as she realized Hanzo had not found the apparent humor in his question. “It was rude of me to assume you knew. You were probably asleep when he—ah nevermind. It does not matter.” She lowered her arm and neatly folded her hands on top of her clipboard. “As you might already know, Overwatch has been trying to take down the Shimada clan to no avail” Hanzo clicked his tongue both in affirmation and annoyance. He was acutely aware of the bloated tick Overwatch was when it came to draining resources out of the clan. “Being the heir to the clan, you’re an incredibly valuable asset,” Dr. Ziegler continued. “It is our hope that you may be willing to help us in our endeavor to—”

“No.” The answer was instantaneous, leaving Hanzo’s mouth before he could even process what he said. Both he and Dr. Ziegler were surprised to him speak, but Hanzo felt no sense of regret as pride welled up in his chest. He had served the clan loyally his entire life. Such loyalty had been built for years, erected upon great pillars of devotion that stood strong in the reaches of Hanzo’s heart. Doubt swam in the back of Hanzo’s mind, but the concrete wall of obedience that had been hammered into him throughout his life proved stronger. Dr. Ziegler offered him a pleading look, but once she saw Hanzo straighten up, eyes hard with unwavering devotion, she formed her mouth into a line and decided to take another approach.

“When you first arrived here, we had to put you on life support immediately,”  Dr. Ziegler said sternly. Her voice had gained a chiding tone that greatly contrasted with how kindly she spoke moments prior. “There was failure in multiple of your organ systems, most noteworthy being your heart and lungs. We had to use a transcutaneous biventricular assist device to keep your heart pumping.” Dr. Ziegler tapped her pen on one of the hefty machines the tubes latched to Hanzo’s body connected to. “We had to use a ventilator to keep you from suffocating as well. You’re paralyzed from the waist down and, had our agent arrived a second later, you might have bleed to death.” Hanzo could see a flicker of pain in Dr. Ziegler as she continued. It was almost as though it was as painful for her to describe what had happened to his body as it was for him to listen. “You won’t be able to live without intensive care,” Dr. Ziegler said in a soft tone. “There are possible unseen problems for the future and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep these machines running for you before the higher ups order me to pull out the plug.”

The steely look in Dr. Ziegler’s eyes dissipated as Hanzo’s face paled with dread. He saw pity bloom in the doctor’s eyes and he suddenly couldn’t stomach to look at her anymore. He turned his head, exhaling a trembling sigh as he shut his eyes tightly. Hanzo already knew what Dr. Ziegler had confirmed. In fact, he was in the same exact position Father had been in for nearly seven months because the clan was too hardheaded to let him go. Hanzo was being given futile treatment; all the IVs and tubes shooting life into his body were only delaying the inevitable. Even after all the money Overwatch had drained into keeping him alive, Hanzo was going to die and there was nothing that could be done about it. Dying slowly without any idea of when he was going to finally fade away, Hanzo realized, was somehow far more terrifying than waiting for one of your own guards to rip your throat open like a dog.

“So.... that’s it?” Hanzo asked, opening his eyes—he released his death grip on the bed sheet once he realized he was digging into the fabric—so he could turn his gaze to Dr. Ziegler, hoping she could not see the pain riddled in his heart. “If I....refuse to help you....you’ll just kill me?”

“No!” Dr. Ziegler practically shouted as she stood up from her chair. She blinked, astonished by her own reaction, and offered Hanzo an apologetic smile before sitting back down. “No we—I would not take you off life support because you refuse to help.” Anxiously, Dr. Ziegler swiped a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting in her chair restlessly before continuing. “I’m going to be honest with you, I have no idea what will happen if you do not cooperate with us. I would sooner resign than willingly let a patient die, but the choice…” Dr. Ziegler glanced down at her hands, searching for some kind of answer within her palms. “The choice is not wholly up to me. I won’t be able to protect you forever. I’m sorry, I really am.”

There was pain in the doctor’s blue eyes. She looked up at Hanzo as though she was expecting him to accept her worthless apology. He met her eye for a split-second before looking away with an irritated huff. What good would “sorry” do? Hanzo was going to rot away in a hospital bed just like his father except he was going to do so in an enemy base with nothing but his regrets to keep him company. It was what he deserved—his reluctance to kill his brother proved that he was incapable of leading the clan—but no matter how much he told himself that, Hanzo could not dislodge the growing seed of anguish in his stomach. The invisible grip on his throat tightened as realization dawned on him. Before, Hanzo had been drunk off blood loss, his mind deluded with ideas of dying an honorable death for the sake of his clan. Now that he was awake and aware of his surroundings he was scared of death, terrified of what the unknown had to offer him. He was nothing more than an invigorated bag of meat waiting for the day he would be deemed useless so he could finally slip into the realm of unconsciousness permanently. He didn’t even know how he could help Overwatch. Besides prodding him for information, there was really nothing the prestigious organization could do. Hanzo would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation were he not trying to hold back tears that threatened to spill out. He would nurse what little pride he had left, even if it meant bottling up his violate feelings until after the doctor left.

“You know, there is something I had in mind.” Hanzo didn’t bother looking at Dr. Ziegler as she spoke up, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of prematurely getting his hopes up. She had ceased fidgeting in her seat and she spoke with a more delicate tone as though she were trying to carefully pick over her words. “There may be a way for us to get you out of that bed and walking on your own two feet again well, sorta.”

That caught Hanzo’s attention. His head shot around, or rather shot around as fast as it could, as he blinked questioningly at the doctor. The corners of her lip turned upward as some of the joy from earlier returned to her face.

“Throughout my entire career, I’ve dedicated myself to saving lives through the wonders of nanobiology,” Dr. Ziegler began. “Joining Overwatch was one big step towards helping people on an international level. It has not only given me nearly unlimited resources to work with, but it has also allowed me to meet some of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever had the honor of befriending.” Dr. Ziegler’s lips curled into a full smile. She met Hanzo’s gaze and although her smile was genuine and full of affection, her eyes looked meaningful as though to reflect the weight her words.

“Ever since I entered Overwatch, I’ve been working on a ways  to resuscitate someone, say, on the brink of death back to good health within a short time span. In some cases, a form of resurrection, if you will.” Dr. Ziegler became empowered by whatever vision was floating in her head. She began to make rapid hand gestures as she spoke, her eyes drawn upwards as though she were speaking to someone above Hanzo. “A colleague and I have worked on similar devices in the past,” Dr. Ziegler said. “We have been at… odds in the past, but we are both in agreement about one thing: how to save you. You see, we have been discussing the possibility of applying one of our projects we have been working on to you. Combining our skills together, we believe we can not only give you a new body, but grant you the ability to function like you were never hurt in the first place.”

Hanzo stared in disbelief, his mind running a mile per hour. It had been less then twenty minutes and Hanzo was already having trouble counting how many different waves of intense emotions had washed over him.

“H-How?” Hanzo stuttered out with wide eyes, raising his hand to grasp his pounding forehead.

“My colleague is a peerless in his work of expertise,” Dr. Ziegler explained. “His work has proven him to be one of the most capable engineers in the world. We believe that between the two of us, we can engineer you a body that combines both organic material and machinery to make you into an individual like no other.” The passion in Dr. Ziegler’s voice was undeniable. She must have been caught up in the moment for when she looked back down, her grin turned sheepish.

“My apologizes, I was rambling,” Dr. Ziegler said as she drew her hands back into her lap. “The procedure is entirely experimental of course; there is always a chance it may fail. It’s an incredibly expensive investment and we’ve never had right person to administer it to.” Except me, Hanzo thought. They never had someone valuable enough to waste so much money on until the cowboy found Hanzo dying on that metal table.

“You may have already guessed,” Dr. Ziegler began with an edge in her voice. “The procedure will not take place if you refuse to help us with the Shimada clan.” Dr. Ziegler paused, waiting for Hanzo to say something. When he did not, she added, “If you do not go through with the treatment, your body will give out after too long.” Hanzo did not reply. “The machines can only do so much.” He remained silent. “I don’t know how longer I’ll be able to hold off the higher ups.” No response. “Okay, I get it.” Dr. Ziegler stood up from the stool, pressing the clipboard to her chest as she pulled the stool back over to the desk. “You need time to think,” she said. “That was a lot to take in and I understand if you need some time to process it all.” Dr. Ziegler walked to the door, opening it but not walking through. “If you want to go through the procedure, just tell me anytime, okay?” Dr. Ziegler waited for Hanzo to reply, her expression practically urging him to say something, but his mouth remained firmly shut. Dr. Ziegler stayed still for a few heartbeats more before sighing quietly. She exited through the door and closed it with finality, leaving Hanzo alone in the room with his thoughts.

For the longest time, Hanzo simply laid back into his pillow, his mind filled with a bustling white noise that drowned out all comprehensive thoughts. An amalgamation of conflicting emotions bloomed in his chest, becoming more and more confounding with every passing second. His fingers curled downward, scraping the worryingly dry clumps of hair matting the top of his head. He was still reeling from the fact that he was alive. It was so jarring to have completely accepted death only to be forcibly pulled back into life, to be denied dying when it seemed as though that was all he could do to appease the world. It wasn’t Dr. Ziegler’s fault that Hanzo felt so uneasy with being alive. Her conspicuous kindness was so unexpected and far from what Hanzo deserved. It was not the legitimacy of her proposal that Hanzo was concerned about, it was the deal itself.

As fantastical as it sounded, Dr. Ziegler was offering to make Hanzo into what he could only presume to be a cyborg. Merely thinking the word cyborg made Hanzo scrunch his nose in disgust. It was just childish word, one that he associated with the colorful characters on the cartoons Genji used to watch as a child. The idea of having his body powered by whirling machinery settled within every crease of his body unsettled Hanzo. Prosthetics at the least were an extension that could be taken off. How was Hanzo supposed to take off something that could very well be inside of him?

But was that any different from his current state? Unconsciously, Hanzo lowered his hand and traced his finger along one of the tubes attached to his body. The tube coiled along his stomach before slipping underneath his skin. Hanzo darted his eyes towards the machine the tube emerged from. It was the trans-something ventricular assist device, a large stationary block of metal that was supposedly helping his heart pump blood through his body. The tubes curling out of it were lodged into both sides of his heart, slurping the blood from the lower chamber of his heart and injecting it out through a mechanical pump. There were more tubes entering his body, shooting chemicals into his body. Even the mask clasped over his mouth was regulating his breathing, keeping him alive because his organs could not. Hanzo shivered involuntarily, drawing his hand away from the tube as he felt a hard lump in his throat. No matter what he did, he would be kept alive through the power of machinery. Briefly, Hanzo was reminded of his father pressed against the hospital mattress, pale and pathetic. Is that what Hanzo looked like? Was he going to die just like Father? Suddenly, Hanzo felt incredibly nauseous.

The last thing Hanzo wanted was to pass away like Father. He’d sooner accept Dr. Ziegler’s deal than fade away like a wilting flower. Accepting the proposal brought its own problems. Saying yes would mean betraying the clan which, by itself, was not easy. The clan was all Hanzo had even known; turning his back against them was not a task he was sure he could accomplish. His loyalty to the clan was formidable, but when Hana’s words drifted back into Hanzo’s mind, a twinge of doubt flickered in his heart.

 _Do the clan one last favor and die like the dog you are._ The elder’s words reverberated through Hanzo’s head. She hadn’t even tried to excuse his failure, nor did she take any steps to get him medical attention like Genji had begged her to do. Considering the condition he was currently in, Hanzo doubted there was anything the doctors in Hanamura could have done to preserve his life, yet Hanzo felt that the elders should have at least _tried_. Genji had failed the clan time and time again, but he was always either forgiven for his actions or ignored, and yet when Hanzo made a single mistake (albeit a big one) he was cast away as a failure. Hanzo tried to fan out the justified spark of anger crackling in his chest, but the more he thought about Hana’s nonchalance towards his death, the more upset he got.

The growing influx of clashing emotions was beginning to put Hanzo on edge. He crossed his arm across his chest and dug his nails into his side, hoping that the pain would keep himself grounded. His mind was polluted enough with conflicting thoughts without having to think about dying in general. There was no point in lying to himself about how miserable he had been back in the clan. He had contemplated taking his own life on more than one occasion. The burden of being heir along with the mountain of responsibilities that came along with it was bad enough without counting the strictness of the elders and just how dysfunctional his family was. Obviously, Hanzo never mustered the courage to take himself out of the narrative. His daydreams of an idyllic life without the pressures he lived with were just that: frilly fantasies to delude himself from the harsh truth of reality.

A sob threatened to bubble up Hanzo’s throat so he seized his neck in a loose grasp, hoping to somehow strangle the sob out of himself. The entire situation was too complicated for Hanzo’s fancy. He had thought about ending his life many times before and he was ready to accept death when the guard had the knife to his throat. If he was so eager for death to come before, why did he suddenly feel differently? Fear prickled up Hanzo’s spine when he thought about drifting away in the hospital bed as someone plucked out his life support. He was absolutely terrified of death in a way he had never felt before. Why? Was it because he didn’t have a choice before? Was he only willing to meet his demise if he had no control over the situation?

 _I have to sacrifice myself for the clan’s sake._ Was that true? There were so many things he had never gotten to experience. He had never taken his father’s spot as leader of the clan, he never explored the world and saw the wonders it had to offer. He never know what it was like to have a cherished friend he could always rely on. He’d never fall in love, never experienced the delight of a first kiss nor the ecstasy that came with new love. It was unfair for the clan to deny him those things but, really, did he not live for the clan? Wasn’t his life regulated through the clan anyhow? What joy could he possibly experience when every breath he took was taken for the clan?

Predictably, holding his neck did not help soothe Hanzo’s nerves. He let go and turned to his side, burying his forehead underneath his hand. A shuddering gasp escaped his lips and Hanzo grinded his teeth together in an attempt to force any other pathetic noise back down this throat. His gaze idly drew down towards the blue tattoo on his left arm. The dragons twisted up his shoulder, weaving between each other with their mouths agape. A vivid memory of the dragons surged into Hanzo’s mind. He could see the radiant beasts staring down at him with perfect clarity. He remembered looking into the pleading eyes of the celestial beings, the rage draining from his body. They were the ones who had convinced him to step down, were they not? The dragons rarely voiced their opinion to the clan—such an event had occurred only a handful of times according to the elders—but when they did speak, the clan listened. If the ever omnipotent dragons thought sparing Genji was necessary, then Hanzo had to have done the right thing, right? For a moment, Hanzo’s thoughts drifted back to Genji. He could see his brother’s infuriated face as they fought, his horror once he realized what he had done, and his carefree smile, the one he had throughout his and Hanzo’s childhood. It is when Hanzo thought of his brother smiling cheerfully with the innocence of a saint does the dam holding his tears back break.

The sobs that he was holding back shook through his body. His lips trembled, tears streaming down his face as a whimper caught in his throat. Hanzo buried his eyes underneath his palm, but he couldn’t do so properly with the mask over his mouth. His incoherent blubbering evolved into a keening howl he had to muffle by shoving the blanket over his face. The ugly wails that came out of Hanzo only attributed to his feeling of wretchedness. Hanzo couldn’t remember the last time he cried so profoundly and his mind was far too warped by sorrow for him to attempt to do so. He simply cried, covering up his puffy red eyes with his hand as he squalled like a child.   

By the time another nurse came in, Hanzo had erased the evidence of his sob fest. She had looked him over with an inquisitive look but said never as she checked his vitals. He remained quiet for the next three days. He slept for the most part, his dreams haunted by a slithering green dragon taunting him with a chant of “traitor” before raking down its claws against his chest and setting it aflame. Hanzo would scream whenever he woke up, grasping his chest as the heart monitor in the room went wild. He saw Dr. Ziegler a couple of times. She’d try to initiate a conversation with small talk, asking about how Hanzo was feeling or inquiring as to how his life at home was. Hanzo wouldn’t reply, preferring to stare off to the side with a blank expression. Dr. Ziegler would end up sighing, finish up what work she had left, and then leave.

In his waking hours, Hanzo has plenty of time to mull over his thoughts. Hanzo did not break down again like before, but he was subjected to becoming overwhelmed by an onslaught of emotions. Several times he could feel tears well up in his eyes, but he banished them with a flick of his finger before they can roll down his cheek. His mind became a battlefield between concrete loyalty and self-preservation that would rage in his mind until he finally fell asleep. At the end of each day, Hanzo thought of Genji’s smile and the sharp blue eyes of the dragons staring down at him. In the back of his head, right before he fell asleep each night, Hanzo would hear the soft dual whispers of _Don’t_.

“I’ll do it.” It was midday—at least that’s what Hanzo’s internal clock told him—on the fourth day. Dr. Ziegler was checking Hanzo’s vitals when he spoke up. She started, tensing up at the unexpected noise before glancing down in bewilderment.

“Come again?” she asked, blinking incredulously.

“The procedure,” Hanzo specified. “I’ll do it.” Dr. Ziegler’s eyes widened at the declaration. She opened her mouth, but Hanzo cut her off before she could say anything. “Before you ask, my answer….is yes. I’ll assist Overwatch in….subduing the Shimada clan.” Hanzo’s voice was somehow more strained than it had been a few days ago. He was sure Dr. Ziegler would have inquired about it if she hadn’t perked up with a ridiculously huge (not nearly as large as Genji’s or the cowboy’s) grin on her face.

“That’s excellent news!” she said as she clapped her hands together excitedly. “I’ll arrange for us to leave tomorrow morning." 

“So soon?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Hanzo wasn’t necessarily against the idea of leaving in the morning, he just expected it to take longer for Dr. Ziegler to get permission to deport him from Rarotonga.

“My position allows me to pull a few strings,” Dr. Ziegler said with a dismissive wave. “Besides, the sooner the better. Those machines won’t keep you alive for long.” Hanzo assumed Dr. Ziegler was too caught up in her elation to notice her vocal blunder. She was a bit too blunt for Hanzo’s liking, but voicing his displeasure when he was in such a poor condition did not seem befitting of him. Hanzo nodded weakly, watching Dr. Ziegler pull a cellphone out of her pocket as she walked out the door. Exhaling loudly, Hanzo leaned back into his pillow. Dr. Ziegler must have been incredibly excited considering she left the room before finishing her routine check of Hanzo’s vitals. She’d come back eventually right after she was finished with the call.

Hanzo settled into his bed comfortably. There was still a ball of uncertainty planted in his stomach. His decision to help Overwatch was propelled moreso by his innate desire to live rather a willingness to bring his clan down. Hanzo wasn’t completely comfortable with the notion of having his body toyed with, let alone by Overwatch, but what choice did he have? Massaging his temple, Hanzo sighed to himself softly. There was only one thing he could do and that was to wait. The future was uncertain and he may end up regretting his decision, but that was a chance that Hanzo, for once, was willing to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa there, 114 kudos? Y'all are giving this a lot more attention that I thought you would. 
> 
> Just a head's up, the next chapter may take a little bit. If it's not up by next Sunday, I'll be sure to get it up the following Sunday. More characters will show up in the next chapter so we can start building up those lovely relationships. After reflecting on the matter, I changed up the tags a bit.
> 
> EDIT: I skimmed through the chapters and found that the odd double-spacing archive defaults me to for some reason is a bit hard on the eye. Single spacing seems to be much easier to read.


	3. Horizon

Dr. Ziegler kept good on her promise. The following morning, preparations were made to move Hanzo to a watchpoint located in a small British territory overlooking the Mediterranean.

“Watchpoint: Gibraltar is primarily used as a research facility,” Dr. Ziegler explained as she jotted down Hanzo’s vitals onto her handy clipboard. “My colleague along with the rest of the team working on the procedure are already there.” Dr. Ziegler glanced up from her clipboard to give Hanzo a reassuring smile. “We should be able to begin the operation a day after we arrive. It’ll be quick," she assured when Hanzo's lips loured into a frown. "I promise.” Though the doctor’s benign smile failed to inspire any sense of reassurance in Hanzo, he nodded at her anyway which seemed to relieve her greatly. She had kept her word so far so it was only fair to spare her of any doubts until she proved herself untrustworthy. 

The trip was over a day long. Dr. Ziegler injected some form of a tranquilizer into Hanzo’s neck before he was moved onto the private jet. Hanzo woke up sometime during the flight, but he could scarcely remember anything beyond the soft whispers of Dr. Ziegler all of which were muffled by the reverberating hum of the engine.

When he woke up, Hanzo found himself in a room similar to the one he was stationed in previously. Thankfully, It wasn’t as barren as the previous room. A plain potted fern sat in the corner of the room and a blank small television was mounted on the wall parallel to Hanzo’s bed. Just about everything else, the machines, the dull white floor and walls, was the same as before. The television wasn’t on and, much to Hanzo’s inconvenience, the remote was intelligently placed just out of his reach on a counter on the opposite side of the room.

Snorting, Hanzo leaned back into his pillow and tried to occupy his mind until someone came in the room. As it turned out, Hanzo’s mind was still fixated on the same constricting thoughts that were drilled into his brain from the moment he woke up in Watchpoint: Rarotonga. He closed his eyes, ordered himself to bat away the wave of incoming emotions, but he was unable to hold them back. Pulsating anxiety knotted itself firmly into his stomach. Memories of the fight with Genji began to resurface. The familiar feeling of wanting to stop existing, knowing that he could not simply vanish without dying, and the overwhelming desire to live began to pour over Hanzo. His throat felt tight and, as he dug his fingernails into the bed, a sense of dread began to overwhelm him as—

_Enough_

It was inconceivable to banish the feelings away permanently, but Mother had taught Hanzo well. He was a master of burying his feelings underneath a stony face. The last thing he wanted was for someone to walk in on him crying. Hanzo, biting down on his lower lip, tried to coat his feelings over with a white noise. When that didn’t work, he began to slowly count by up by fours, hoping to force his brain to focus on counting rather than his feelings. 

Hanzo had reached about 102,144 (or was it 102,156?) when the door open. He was half expecting to see another nurse enter, forcing a smile as they tended to the various machines stationed around him. The sight of a grinning Dr. Ziegler did not surprise Hanzo, but the short man that followed after her was wholly unexpected. He was too stout to be a child and his long braided beard gave way to his age. He was much older than Dr. Ziegler, perhaps over a decade or so. Before Hanzo could speculate upon the man’s personality, the blond grinned wildly as he opened his arms, gesturing towards Hanzo.

“Ah, if it isn’t our little wonder!” His voice was accented, not like Dr. Ziegler but strong, something European. “The name’s Torbjörn Lindholm,” the man said as he walked—waddled more like—towards the bed. “I’ve been waiting to do this project for a while now. Glad to see we finally got someone to work with.” Dr. Ziegler sucked in a sharp breath, glowering down at Lindholm. He raised an eyebrow at her and then, realizing the implied apathy of his words, quickly corrected himself. “Aha, I did not mean to say I’m _glad_ to see ya battered up. We’ve been working on this project for a while and it’s good to see it finally kick off, y’see?” _Vaguely_ , Hanzo stopped himself from saying. It was clear Lindholm—just Lindholm, not Dr. Lindholm, Professor Lindholm or anything on those lines—was not used to explaining himself let alone making amends for his own carelessness.

“As you might have assumed,” Dr. Ziegler began, coughing as though to clear the room of the awkward silence that had materialized. “We are currently stationed in Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Mr. Lindholm—” she motioned towards the dwarf who grinned in response, waggling two fingers in a makeshift wave. “—is the colleague I mentioned earlier. He, along with the other members of the project, will be assisting me in the procedure. Lindholm? Would you care to explain the procedure?”

“Well,” Lindholm began, rubbing his nubby fingers together enthusiastically. “Well should I start?

The procedure was more like a series of operations on nearly every part of Hanzo’s body, both inside and out. The majority of his internal organs would be assisted by some form of machinery and a few of them would be replaced by automated metals ones entirely. Bones would be reinforced, synthetic skin would be installed were burn marks maimed Hanzo’s flesh,  nerves would be intertwined with wires, and other “fun features” such as night vision and a built in communicator were to be inaugurated functions of Hanzo’s new body. His outward appearance, according to Lindholm, was going to be one-of-a-kind.

“Say,” Lindholm said once the explanation was over. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there was a digital copy of that tattoo of yours, would ya?” Hanzo raised his eyebrows in momentary surprise before furrowing them in suspicion.

“No,” he spat coldly. He toyed with the idea of leaving it at that, offering a laconic reply and nothing more. Lindholm’s patient stare prompted Hanzo to continue. “It’s the only of its kind. There are no copies.” Lindholm nodded, taking the answer in stride.

“That’s fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I can make it work.” Lindholm did not bother to clue in Hanzo as to what “it” was, but judging by Dr. Ziegler’s scowl, she had an idea of what Lindholm meant.

It took two days for them to prep for the procedure. According to Dr. Ziegler, Lindholm was the one to blame for the tardiness of the operation.

“That tattoo gave him some silly little idea,” she scoffed. “He’s gone off to tinker with some of equipment before we begin.” She snorted dismissively at Lindholm’s idea, but there was no venom in her voice. Hanzo did not bring it up, but when he watched Dr. Ziegler from the corner of his eye, when she thought he wasn’t looking, he could catch her staring at him in the same wistful manner that Lindholm had stared at his tattoo. Whatever Lindholm's "silly little idea" was, it was apparently infectious. 

When the time came for Hanzo to be put under, Dr. Ziegler was the only one in the room. She slapped white latex gloves onto her hands, a syringe in hand. She flicked the side of the syringe, watching carefully for any bubbles before turning to face Hanzo. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, eyes flecked with mild concern. It was a preposterous question; it didn’t matter if Hanzo was ready or not, he’d die without the procedure. Still, he found himself in a particularly subdued mood that day. He could spare to humor the doctor a little. So, Hanzo gave a small nod, straightening himself up onto the pillow as the doctor grew closer, pointing the needle towards his skin.

“I am ready," he said. Without further ado, Dr. Ziegler jabbed the needle into his neck. The sharp pain lasted for a few seconds before Hanzo's entire world went dark. 

══════════════

When consciousness slipped back into Hanzo’s mind, he felt different in every sense of the word. The throbbing ache that persisted ever since he woke up in Overwatch’s care was nonexistence. A soft hum crooned in the air—a relaxing mantra that appeared to emanate from somewhere inside his head. It was fair to say that his body felt new in a sense—Hanzo wasn’t entirely sure how to describe the sensation of cleanliness and stability that had been absent previously. His eyes flickered open and, momentarily, he was surprised to find himself looking at the ceiling from what appeared to be a blue filter. He could make out the individual colors of the room, and yet see the world in a basic blue tint.

Hanzo brought his right hand—yes, he realized in astonishment, he _had_ a right hand again—to touch his face and remove the strange film over his eyes. Not only did his hand hit a strange curved surface that was by no means shaped like a human face, he was unable to feel the texture of the surface. His hand had definitely registered that there was indeed a solid surface pressed under his palm, but whatever material the surface was made from was lost to him. No amount of rubbing or prodding provided him with any means of understanding the texture, let alone feeling it. Even more peculiar, Hanzo could tell that he had a face of some description. He felt the dryness of his lips as he licked them and he was capable of blinking and sniffing the clean air. Strange, incredibly strange.

Hanzo would not have been able to move his legs, let alone feel them, before the procedure. Now, he could pull himself into a sitting position and swing his legs off the side of the bed he had been resting upon with ease. Silently, he noted that he was not the room he had been stationed in previously. The room followed the same white sterile theme the other rooms had, but it was the only room to have a long narrow mirror by the door and a pile of magazines mounded up on the desk in the corner. The mirror across the room caught Hanzo’s attention quickly. Experimentally, he lifted his feet and rotated them in the air. They obeyed every movement he demanded of them with a surprising lack of pain and even more surprisingly lack of numbness. He laid his feet flatly on the floor, hesitating momentarily before pressing them down as he stepped off the bed. His new legs reacted just as his old ones should have. It was just as Dr. Ziegler had said, he had a new brand new body that would perform just as well, if not better, than his old one.

Strolling towards the mirror in long strides, Hanzo rolled his shoulders, reveling in the sense of simply feeling himself move. Being able to move again, to move his body with little resistance, brought a sort of joy that Hanzo did think was possible by just moving around. Perhaps being bedridden for weeks made freedom all the more sweeter or maybe being deprived of any form of pleasure for so long made a small drop of delight feel like pure ecstasy. Through the rolls of gaiety, mellowing with every second, Hanzo's attention was diverted by a peculiar imbalance. 

For whatever reason, his left arm felt heavier than his other limbs, an unbalance in an otherwise perfect body. He might have pondered upon the heaviness of his arm, investigating why it wasn’t as light as his other arm, but all thoughts were banished from Hanzo’s mind as soon as his eyes landed on the image reflected in the mirror.

He did not see a man standing before him. No, an omnic was a better term for the robotic being staring back at him. The white carapace that was the omnic’s armor matched wonderfully with the peach colored muscle undertones that bore a strange rigid texture that looked bumpy to the touch. There was an obscene amount of blue lights on the body although the hue of the blue was far from offensively bright; the blue lights were the same dark blue hue as Hanzo’s favorite _obi_. He could clearly make out the steady rise and fall of the omnic’s chest almost as though the metal was actually flesh with a pair of functioning lungs behind it.

Contrasting the rest of the mechanical form was what appeared to be a yellow scarf fashioned as a sort of ribbon attachment that emerged from the back of his head. Hanzo stared at the ribbon, narrowing his eyes dubiously. For a moment, he thought the scarf had some sort of function, perhaps it only looked harmless when in reality it was important, but then he remembered the way Lindholm stared at this tattoo and the way Dr. Ziegler’s eyes lingered on him, her lips pursed thoughtfully. It was not functional in any manner, it was a gift that he did not ask for nor deserve.

It was ridiculous. The design upon the scarf was too elegant, the material was too high-grade, the pristine quality was too great. Was that why the operation was held off a day? So Lindholm and Dr. Ziegler could put their own touch onto Hanzo's body? Absolutely and utterly ridiculous, but, alas, it was not the most bizarre thing on his, no, the omnic's person.

The ribbon was already too much, but the tattoo hit the nail into the coffin. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before considering it took up his entire arm and part of his chest. The dragon, as blue and detailed as they were on his flesh, were dancing up his left arm. It crawled upon his chest, body swirling around in the clouds, mouth agape, claws extended. Hanzo had witnessed the birth of the tattoo back when it was nothing more than a sketch on paper. He knew the design better than anyone else, yet even he could not see any flaws the dragons wrapped around his new arm. Instinctively, he pressed a hand to the tattoo, hoping to see a blue spark or feel a shimmer of heat as the dragons acknowledged his presence. He was greeted only by the faint sensation of pressure as his fingers brushed along the head of the dragon. No recognition, no reassurance that he wasn’t alone, just a vacant stare from dragon drawn on his metallic arm.

It was too much. Just looking at the pristine omnic in the mirror made disgust coil up in Hanzo’s chest. Was there anything human inside of the metal shell? Was there an ounce of Shimada blood still flowing through his veins or had his humanity been completely stripped from him. A soft “ha” escaped Hanzo’s lips, the distortion of his voice only worsening his sense of dread. If he had any humanity left, he had torn it shreds himself long ago.

Unable to look at himself any longer, Hanzo made his way out of the room. The door led to a clean corridor with the same sterile characteristic as the room Hanzo exited from. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the left side of the corridor. Hanzo would have questioned just how he could smell the rich scent of roasted coffee beans (he did have a nose after all), but thinking about his new body brought forth a wave of emotions he was not ready to deal with.

He pushed his curiosity to the back of his mind as he shuffled towards the source of the scent. Just a few doors down, the hallway opened up to a basic kitchen with a small dining area. It was the first room Hanzo had encountered with windows. The panoramic beauty of the sea line that surely could have been seen from on top of the watchpoint was unfortunately not visible from the windows in the kitchen. Still, Hanzo could not help but admire the rays of sunlight that shone through window for several moments, allowing his eyes to trail down the light and towards the person sitting at the dining table.

Hanzo had not noticed Dr. Ziegler when he first walked into the room. The grimace on her face was incredibly uncharacteristic. He could make out a worrying dark tint underneath her tired eyes where bags had began to form. When she lifted up the steaming ceramic cup up to her lips, she left out a weary sigh, running a hand through her hair as she set the cup down. Despite knowing the doctor for only a few days and despite realizing that she could still potentially be his enemy, Hanzo became concerned for the doctor’s well-being. She _did_ drain an excessive of time and effort into bringing Hanzo from the cusp of death if her exhausted expression was to be believed. The least he could do was make sure she was okay.

“Dr. Ziegler?” It was a relief to hear that yes, Hanzo did sound like himself albeit a bit more artificial, sorta like an automated computer voice. “Are you alright?” Dr. Ziegler, who had lifted her cup up again, froze in place. She stayed still for several heartbeats before looking up with wide blue eyes.

“Mr. Shimada?” Dr. Ziegler asked, staring holes into Hanzo. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze.

“Yes?” Hanzo replied cautiously, eliciting a gasp out of Dr. Ziegler. Her free hand shot up, quickly clasping over her mouth just in time to stifle what sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“H-Hold on,” she said, pulling a phone out of her pocket before rapidly dialing into the keyboard on the screen. Hanzo stood awkwardly as Dr. Ziegler raised the phone to her ear, unsure how to react. “Torbjörn?” Dr. Ziegler said as the call connected. “Horizon—” Hanzo raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the unfamiliar name—”didn’t defunct, he’s up. Yes! He’s awake! He’s standing in the kitchen right now!” The doctor’s eyes flickered towards Hanzo momentarily. He straightened his back, tried to make himself look presentable or at least hide his uncertainty. “What? No, that can wait! Just come down here, alright? Yes, thank you, Torby. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ended with a soft beep. Dr. Ziegler shoved her phone back into her pocket. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth in an effort to muffle the shaky breath that escaped her quivering lips.

“Dr. Ziegler?” Hanzo began, his voice filled with genuine concern.. “Is everything okay?  Dr. Ziegler nodded weakly, a thin smile stretching upon her face as she lowered her hand. She glanced up at Hanzo chuckling softly. His shoulders relaxed and a gentle sigh escaped him—Dr. Ziegler was not distressed by his appearance, she was ecstatic. Of course she was pleased, she helped make him. The realization sent a small surge of confidence drove Hanzo forward several steps, his metallic feet clicking upon the tiled floor.

“Could you explain what’s happening?” Hanzo asked as gently as he could managed. “I woke up in a room like… this.” He gestured towards himself, biting his lip. “Do you know what’s going on?” Dr. Ziegler nodded furiously and stood up from her chair before making her way towards Hanzo. It was only when she wiped a finger underneath her eye did Hanzo realize, to his horror, that the brims of her eyes were glistening with tears. Panic emerged from the back of Hanzo’s mind as Dr. Ziegler stopped nearly a foot away from him. She was too close, far too close and expressing way too much emotion for his comfort. He didn’t know how to deal with tears, not anymore. What would he do if she began bawling right in front of him? How was he supposed to react? Hanzo felt his entire body go completely still, uncertainty fluttering in his chest. Dr. Ziegler, thankfully, did not burst into tears like Hanzo had feared.  

"I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling aloud as she wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I'm usually more professional than this. Just—give me a minute." Hanzo did not bother to extend any words of comfort as Dr. Ziegler wiped away the rest of her tears, sniffling less and less as the seconds ticked on by. She gathered her composure commendably quick. Within a minute, Dr. Ziegler had regained her poise of civility along with an air of sophistication.

“If it was not already evident, the procedure was a success,” Dr. Ziegler said, her lips formed into a narrow line. “You were expected to wake up several hours after the operation was finished. You… did not.” The doctor’s eyebrows scrunched together and she bite her lip as though to keep herself from crying again. Hanzo pretended not to notice. “We thought that something had gone wrong,” Dr. Ziegler continued, her voice betraying a hint of disquietude. “Your vitals were fine and your body did not appear to be malfunctioning. You, by all regards, appeared to be in perfect condition. I—we were unsure as to why you would not wake up so we assumed the worst.” Dr. Ziegler, unconsciously no doubt, twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “For what it’s worth, I am pleased to see you up and about.”

There was a strain in Dr. Ziegler’s voice. She spoke as though she was holding something back, something that she did not want Hanzo to know. Suspicion flickered in Hanzo’s mind briefly before he realized just how foolish it was to suspect the poor doctor. Of course she was holding something back, she was trying not to show any emotion. She had watched over his broken body for weeks before he finally woke up. Hell, she had thought him worthy enough to be used in a project she had seemingly worked on zealously before and took the time to convince him to be a part of it. There was no doubt Overwatch had plenty of information regarding him and the clan that she had read through so of course she knew a bit about him. Though Hanzo barely knew Dr. Ziegler, she had become emotionally invested in him to some degree. It would be wrong to assume poorly of her after she poured so much time into him. And yet… 

Shaking his head, Hanzo replied monotonously. “I’m pleased to be awake as well." That was enough to wrestled out a small grin out of Dr. Ziegler.

“If you do not mind,” Dr. Ziegler began. “I’d like to inspect your body real quick just to make sure everything is still in working condition.”

“Of course,” Hanzo replied with a dutiful nod. Dr. Ziegler nodded towards a stool by the kitchen island. Hanzo marched over the stool and sat down, watching Dr. Ziegler intently as she strode over and began to examine his body. Within a few moments of watching the doctor prod his body, Hanzo suddenly found himself unable to bear the sight of himself. He quickly diverted his gaze from the doctor as she began her inspection, complying with her requests to move his arm, breath in and out, and so on.

The examination had proceeded for about ten minutes when Hanzo heard footsteps from the other side of the room followed by the sound of boisterous laughter. It was no surprise to see Lindholm stride into the kitchen with a wide grin spread upon his face.

“If it isn’t our little work of wonder,” Lindholm said (was Hanzo always going to be the "little wonder?) in a booming voice. He turned to Dr. Ziegler who had removed herself from her work and faced the dwarf with a warm smile. “My apologies for arriving so late, Angela. Just had to finish something up, no cow on the ice, eh?” Dr. Ziegler rolled her eyes but there was no irritation in the gesture, just patient understanding.

“Now then,” Lindholm said as he faced Hanzo. “How are you feeling, my friend? Anything broken or in need of repairing?” Hanzo had no idea if he was missing any parts or if anything was broken. He definitely didn’t feel like something was amiss on a physical level. His body responded just as well to his commands as they did before the fateful night he most certainly was not going to dwell upon in front of two acquaintances.

“I feel…” Hanzo licked his lips, drumming his fingers along the rim of the stool. How did he feel? If he went about describing his emotional, or god forbid mental, state then he could go on for hours. Surely that was not what Lindholm was looking for. “Alive,” Hanzo settled upon. “I feel alive.”

It was the exact same answer he had given to Dr. Ziegler when he had first woken up. It was the only appropriate response that Hanzo could think of because really, how else could he describe himself? His new body was alien to him, yet he could not deny that he felt more aware, awake even, than he had in months. It was the simple truth and, when Hanzo dared to look over at Dr. Ziegler, he did not see her frown.

Lindholm, unaware of any previous significance with the response, laughed aloud.

“That’s the spirit!” He slapped Hanzo firmly on the back, causing him to jerk forward and prompting Dr. Ziegler to sharply hiss “Torbjörn!” “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Lindholm snorted as both Hanzo and Dr. Ziegler glared at him. “He can handle it, can’t cha, lad?” Hanzo lifted his chin, huffing pejoratively.

“I would prefer if you did not smack me in the back,” he chided coolly. If Lindholm had detected Hanzo’s belittling tone, he made no show of it.

“Not very touchy, are we now?” Lindholm asked, his grin as wide as ever. Hanzo glared at the dwarf mutely in lieu of a response. Seconds ticked by, the engineer kept smiling, not speaking a word. Hanzo continued to stare. The mischievous grin grew wider. Lindholm’s relentless blitheness was starting to grate on Hanzo’s nerves. 

Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat much to Hanzo’s relief.

“Torbjörn? Do you think we should conduct some tests?” she asked, looking down at her colleague. “Now that Mr. Shimada is awake, we should make sure he is at optimal capacity.” A loud chuckle rumbled out of Lindholm’s chest and Hanzo began to wonder if the he was capable of feeling any emotion besides jubilance.

“Oh yes,” Lindholm assured, his eyes darting in Hanzo’s direction. “There is a lot of work to be done. How about it, Mr. Shimada? You ready for some tests?” There wasn’t a need for Lindholm to phrase his words like a question. Hanzo would have to go through the tests no matter what so what was the point in pretending he had a choice. Pushing his desire to snarkily reply to Lindholm’s question, Hanzo simply nodded in affirmation.

For three weeks, Hanzo’s life was a series of tests in a quite very literal sense. Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm tested Hanzo on both a physical and mental level. They treated him like a patient in physical therapy for the first few days, but once it was evident that Hanzo had great control over his body, they put him through more strenuous tests. He was led him to what appeared to be a training room of some sorts designed to prepare Overwatch agents for possible scenarios out in the field. It was an open gray clearing full of various obstacles for him to climb upon, all of which could be modified by simply pressing a few buttons on the console located at the edge of the room.

Hanzo was put through varying physical trials involving maneuvering around different environments as quickly and efficiently possible. He was pleasantly surprised to find himself passing the physical trials with flying colors. On more than one occasion, Hanzo effortlessly climbed a wall or leapt across the room with a level of expertise his old body did not have. His misgivings towards his new body did not vanish overtime, but a newfound appreciation for his capabilities began to grow with every test he passed.

The training room was always empty when they arrive and no one showed up by the time they’re ready to leave late in the eve. It was quite peculiar that the training room was so rarely used by other agents, especially since Hanzo saw more than a few people wandering around the watchpoint when he looked out of the kitchen windows. When Hanzo had questioned Dr. Ziegler about the lack of other agents in the training room, she simply shrugged.

“This entire project, Project: Horizon, is considered a private operation,” she explained. “We were provided with a small facility within the watchpoint to assess you in. That training room is exclusively for you until the project ends. The same goes for why you never see anyone but Lindholm or I.”

“What of the other people working on the project?” Hanzo asked. “Are they not allowed to see the fruits of their labor?” Dr. Ziegler had laughed, a light fluttering chuckle that rose from her chest.

“Others will come eventually,” she stated. “For now, only the heads of the project may have contact with you. Why? Do you want someone to visit?”

The cowboy briefly came to mind. He had save Hanzo’s life, had he not? Didn’t Hanzo deserve to speak with his savior at least once? Conflicted feelings emerged into Hanzo’s thoughts, feelings asking why should he greet the person who stole him a clean death? How would he even ask to meet the cowboy whose name he did not know? Would the cowboy even want to see him? He had just been doing his job, nothing more. Hanzo shook his head and accepted Dr. Ziegler’s explanation. He did not bring up the subject again.

Small adjustments were made to Hanzo’s body as time went on. As loud and obnoxious Lindholm was, Hanzo could not deny that he was an excellent engineer. He made small calibrations to Hanzo’s body, most worth noting being his left arm which felt just as light as his right. When Hanzo questioned why his left arm felt so much heavier, Lindholm replied, “Well it’s the only natural limb you got left. We had to get rid of ya legs and your right arm was already gone, but your left was still intact. We would have gotten rid of it but—” Lindholm caught himself, smiled sheepishly as he shook his head. “Well, it’s fixed now, isn't it? That’s what matters.” It was painfully obvious that Lindholm was holding something back, but he did not seem keen on explaining himself. Hanzo shrugged his shoulders and made a mental note to pursue the subject on a later date.

Dr. Ziegler was the one who informed Hanzo that he could remove the mask on top of his face. She had asked him if he would like to look into a mirror, but he had vehemently declined. The fear of seeing what sort of abomination he had become was seconded only to the horror of realizing why he had to take off his mask in the first place.

Hanzo was incapable of ingesting any sort of substance other than plain water and a strange blue gel he was required to consume in order to survive. The vast majority of his internal organs were mechanically modified one way or another but few of them were actual machines. His digestive system was apparently one of them.

“You’ll need to drink this twice a week,” Dr. Ziegler had said as Hanzo examined the strange clear tube she had given him. It was unnaturally blue, bordering neon, with a visually slimy texture. At first, it appeared to have the consistency of jello, but when Hanzo swished the tube around, the blue substance swashed around like a heavy liquid. “It supplies the necessary nutrients you need to function in the absence of a proper organic digestive system,” Dr. Ziegler explained. Hanzo stared at the doctor disbelievingly, waiting for her to explain exactly what kind of prank she was trying to pull. She was not pulling a prank. The blue gel tasted like liquefied toothpaste. It slide down Hanzo's throat at as quickly as molasses and left a lingering taste for days after. Safe to say, Hanzo was placing his hopes on that new digestive system Lindholm said he was working on.

Mental tests were always conducted by Dr. Ziegler without Lindholm’s presence. They were simple analysis of his mental condition, mostly how he was adjusting to his new body and if he was showing any signs of distress. Hanzo had long ago learned how to bottle up his feelings and doing so in his current condition was absolutely needed. It was almost a relief to put back on his mask of apathy, showing emotion only when it came to self-pride which in itself was simply a tool to hide Hanzo’s great self-loathing. It was the Shimada way hide one's feelings from everyone, including your own family, and it was habit that was hard to break. Dr. Ziegler noted his partially indifferent nature, but attributed as a part of his personality, which it partially was, rather than the facade it really was.

As time went by, Hanzo began to notice changes in Dr. Ziegler’s and Lindholm’s behavior. They became more relaxed around him, trusting even. Neither of them called him “Mr. Shimada”, but they didn’t use and of the honorifics that Hanzo was so used to. He simply became Shimada to them to which he had no problem with. Lindholm spoke to Hanzo more affectionately and became more physical. Dr. Ziegler spoke more of the outside world when they weren’t testing. Both she and Lindholm enjoyed gossiping, especially when it came to the founders of Overwatch. Hanzo learned a great deal about the personalities of the other founders and several of the other agents of Overwatch from late night talks with his guardians. 

A gorilla from the moon colony had joined the organization a few months back and had proven himself to be one of the best scientists they had. The second in command, Ana Amari, brought her daughter to every watchpoint she was stationed in. Said daughter had apparently defeated seven agents in arm wrestling matches, much to her mother’s amusement. The Strike-Commander, who Hanzo had seen many times on television from anything between news reports to talk shows, apparently couldn’t cook even if his life depended on it.

Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm became incredibly friendly towards Hanzo. Their laughter became familiar to him and although Hanzo could not muster the strength to smile, he did find some of their mirthful stories entertaining. They grew upset when he showed no interest in their kind words and they became jovial when he responded amiably. It was strange to realize that they seemed to value Hanzo’s opinion and care whether or not he was pleased or not. It was their job to care for him, but they appeared to be affected by him on a personal level nevertheless. Hanzo was not happy, not by a long shot, but he would be lying if he said the companionship the doctor and Lindholm provided, the feeling of being simple being _wanted,_ was distasteful.

On one particularly day while Lindholm was fiddling with Hanzo’s wrist, digging a screwdriver into the exposed wires and bolts, he brought up a subject different from the norm.

“Your file says you were trained as an assassin,” Lindholm said in the same casual manner one might use when discussing the weather. “What kind of weapons didja work with if you don’t mind me askin’.” Hanzo raised his eyebrows, but does not ask where the question came from. He knew that Overwatch did not bring him back from the brink of death just out of the goodness of their hearts. They meant to use him as a weapon against the Shimada clan just as Dr. Ziegler had said when he first woke up. Still, that did not mean the question was unexpected, especially after a month of nothing but testing and friendly chatter.

“I was trained in the art of both the sword and bow,” Hanzo replied calmly.

“Traditional, eh?” Lindholm asked with a knowing smile, glancing up momentarily to waggle and eyebrow before returning to his work. “Well y’see, part of the contract we—Angela and I—signed in order to get Project: Horizon green lighted by the UN was to consent to several terms that we—mostly Angela, not me—did not agree with. One said term being that any subjects that underwent the procedure had to undergo combat training.” Lindholm pulled back the screwdriver, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow, and then continued his work. “The UN sees the project more as a means of creating a living weapon rather than a way to bring someone back from the brink of death. Now, Angela, well, you know her. She wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it flew up her nostril. Heh, could you imagine that? Local advocate for peace Angela trying to sneeze out a fly without hurtin’ it. Do you think she would really-”

“Where are you going with this?” Hanzo interrupted as he stared down at Lindholm. The dwarf rolled his shoulders, sighing loudly.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said slowly. “Is what sort of weapon do you want me to make for ya? We all already know that you aren’t some small fry who can’t take a beatin’. You were trained to fight when you were a child and you are clearly capable of handling yourself if your physical tests are to be believed. So come on then,” Lindholm looked up from his work with a broad smile. “What sort of weapon do you work best with?”

Hanzo pursed his lips together, averting his gaze. The obvious answer that came into his head is his sword. He was a swordsman before an archer, not to mention his skill with the sword was greater than that of anyone else in the Shimada estate. There was no doubt that he was gifted with the bow, but he had to work more with the bow whereas with the sword he had not only skill but immense raw talent to work with. If that was the case, then why was he hesitating? 

Lindholm, who had become accustomed to Hanzo’s bouts of silence, simply resumed his work as the younger man contemplated his indecisiveness. Why did the thought of holding a sword make Hanzo’s heart wither like a flower? He had been so fond of his swordsmanship; surely the sword was the weapon he was most comfortable with? He thought back to when he last held a sword. He could remember holding the blade in front of himself, staring at his own reflection which was partially obscured by blood. His own blood had been thumping in his ears, the dragons weaving in out of his tattoo. Hanzo had been ready to tear down, no, _demolish_ his foe. He had repositioned himself, calling upon the dragons as he opened his mouth and cried out their calling card—

_Genji_

Before Hanzo was Genji, face contorted with rage as green light flickered across his skin, sword raised. Hanzo blinked and Genji was a child again. The blood on his clothes had disappeared, his hair had transformed back into its natural black roots, and a grin was plastered upon his face. Around his neck was that green scarf he loved, wrapped around his neck several times and just barely covering his cheeks. Hanzo had spent months trying to acquire the scarf that he knew that his brother would grow into as time went by. Genji reached out towards Hanzo, smiling that wide grin that Hanzo loved so dearly. That delightful grin that made it first appearance when Genji saw Hanzo for the first time when he was only a few weeks old. That amazing charming grin that Hanzo had nearly taken away from the world. That perfect wide grin, stretching from ear to ear, that only continued to exist because Hanzo threw his sword away.

“Bow,” Hanzo said, blinking as the image of Genji faded away.

“Pardon?”

“If you are to make me a weapon, make me a bow,” Hanzo clarified, his head still turned away from the engineer. “I could not handle a sword even if I wanted to.” Lindholm did not understand the inner turmoil that came with the decision, but how could he? Despite his amiability, he did not know Hanzo and Hanzo did not know him. The realization weighs like a stone in Hanzo’s stomach. 

“Alrighty then,” Lindholm chimes as he pulls away from Hanzo’s arm, gently closing the open compartment on his wrist shut. “That’s all fixed. Let me know if it gives you any trouble.” Hanzo nodded mutely, watching Lindholm as he place his tools back into his toolbox. “I’ll be sure to have a bow ready for ya soon,” Lindholm said with a wave of his hand. Hanzo nodded again, refusing to speak. Lindholm shut his toolbox and paused, as though to ponder something. “Hey Shimada,” he began, glancing over his shoulder. “You know anything about braiding?” Hanzo finally looked back at Lindholm, staring at him owlishly.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to dwell upon his memories. He was back in his childhood, sitting in his room. Genji sat with his back to him, back straight as Hanzo tied a series of small braids on the back of his short hair. Neither Mother or Father approved of either of the brothers wearing braids. At the time, Hanzo couldn't fathom why. He thought both he and Genji looked gorgeous in braids and was it not the job of a Shimada to dress to impress? Hanzo had not argued with his parents, but he had also not argued with Genji who insisted on braiding one another's hair in secret. They had hidden away in Hanzo's room where they thought they were safe from the their parents' wrath.

When Hanzo had finished the first set of braids, Genji had leapt up and ran to the mirror to admire his older brother’s handiwork. He had giggled loudly, flipping the braids to and fro before running back to Hanzo.

“Turn around,” he had demanded. “It’s my turn to do yours now!” The memory faded away without a sliver of pain.

“I have knowledge with braiding hair,” Hanzo said, cocking his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”

“Would you mind doing a man a favor,” Lindholm said as he gestured towards his chin. “And braid his beard?” Hanzo had not noticed it before, but the two signature braids Lindholm always adorned on his blond beard were missing. It was early in the morning, obscenely early to be precise, and it was not unlikely that Lindholm did not have time to braid before coming to visit. A ghost of a smile appeared on Hanzo’s face.

“I’ll be glad to assist,” he said as he scooted towards Lindholm and began the first braid.

Just a few days later, Lindholm told Hanzo to wait in the training room before beginning the day’s session. Hanzo complied with the request. He was leaning against a metal support beam, a container of the blue gel (which Dr. Ziegler liked to call "Nutrition Gel") clutched in his grasp, when he saw Lindholm lumber into training room with a bulky black case in hand. He waved at Hanzo enthusiastically, motioning him to come closer as he set the case down on one of the benches on the outer rims of the room.

“I got a present for ya,” Lindholm announced as Hanzo came closer, chugging the vile blue liquid as he did so. He flipped open the latches of the case and gentle flipped the top open. Within the case was perhaps one of the most technologically advanced bows Hanzo had ever laid eyes on. The bow appeared to be made from a similar material as the flexible metal that coated Hanzo’s body. The base of the bow was the same dark gray as the decal of Hanzo’s body while the details, such as the edging and the blue straps in the center, matched the ribbon and his lights respectively. When Hanzo picked it up, he noted that it was by no means light, but his superior mechanical body had no trouble lifting the hefty bow. There was a quiver inside of the case with a plentiful amount of arrows sticking out from inside of it. A curved handle latched onto the side of the quiver that the bow could hang on to and there were strange little nodes littered on one side of the quiver.

“I call it the Storm Bow,” Lindholm announced, pride evident in his voice. “Precision Swish engineering at its finest! You said you worked with traditional bows, so I figured a recurve would be better for ya than a compound bow. ‘Sides, your body can handle a draw weight over 100lb easy! We’ll need to go through some trial runs so I can properly calibrate it. Here.” Lindholm picked up the quiver and handed it to Hanzo. “It’s designed to automatically latch onto your back when in contact with your, uh, skin and the bow loops around that little latch on the side. You needn’t worry about running out of arrows, there’s four loads in the quiver. It should reload once the sensors detect that the first batch is all used up.”

Nodding, Hanzo swung the quiver onto his back. There was a soft click as the nodes suctioned themselves onto the muscles on Hanzo’s back, a ticklish tingle bloomed from where the nodes attached. “I’m still working out the kinks,” Lindholm said when Hanzo glanced at him inquisitively. It was amazing how both he and Dr. Ziegler could read Hanzo's expressions even when he had a mask on. “Go on and try shooting at the training bots.” Lindholm motioned towards the floating robots that roamed around the training room. Hanzo had practiced hand-to-hand combat with the robots, but they made for poor close range combatants considering their only means of attack were the small cannons on their arms. Perhaps they would prove to be more of a challenge when faced with a bow.

Hanzo strode over towards the bots, positioning himself a good distance away from them. Mechanically, he drew an arrow from the quiver and notched it onto his string, raising his bow upwards and drawing the string taut to the corner of his eye. Muscle memory kicked in as Hanzo took in a long breath, feeling the tension of the string grow. He waited, calculated the positioning of the arrow, cornered his shoulders. He let go of the string, loosing the arrow towards the head of one of the bots. The arrow soundlessly hit its intended target, causing the bot to squeal loudly before falling to the ground as sparks flew from where the arrow head made contact.

Lindholm cackled clamorously behind Hanzo, startling him out of his concentration.

“Ha!” he barked. “I knew you had it in ya, but I didn’t think you’d hit bullseye on the first try.” The praise brought forth pride that swelled in Hanzo’s chest. He greedily drank up the compliment, allowing himself to bask in momentary glory.

“You didn’t ask for my draw length,” Hanzo admitted once he was finished soaking in Lindholm’s praise. “The arrows aren’t exactly my size.” Hanzo had to stop himself from asking about an armguard, finger tab or glove to shield his skin from the bowstring. Such apparel was used to protect archers from getting slapped by the bowstring once an arrow was released. Hanzo didn’t have exposed skin, only metal that could withstand any blows that came upon it.

“Is that so?” Lindholm asked as he walked over to where Hanzo was, toolbox in hand. “I should be able to make a few adjustments real quick. Hand ‘er over.” For the next several hours, Hanzo continued to practice with the Storm bow, stopping on numerous occasions so Lindholm could work out minor kinks. Lindholm brought up the idea of two specialized arrows: one of which could break up into multiple arrows when shot and another that could detect nearby lifeforms. Hanzo fancied the idea of specialized arrows immensely and even went so far as to contribute his own thoughts as to how they could operate, much to Lindholm’s delight.

By the end of the session, Lindholm’s notebook was full to the brim with all sorts of doodles for the new arrows and calculations for improvements. Hanzo pulled the quiver off his back with a _pop_ and placed both it and the Storm Bow back into the case.

“I’ll be sure to make the necessary calibrations when I get back to the workshop,” Lindholm said as he flipped the case shut. “Today was very eventful. I’ll be sure to come back with some results soon.” Hanzo nodded his head in acknowledgement. He watched as Lindholm flipped the metal swatches on the case down and heaved it off the bench. “Oh, and Shimada?” Hanzo looked up at Lindholm who was glancing at him from over the case. He tilted his head to the side, silently prompting Lindholm to continue. “Be sure to ready yourself,” Lindholm said as he pulled the case off the bench. “You might be using the Storm Bow on actual targets sooner than you think.”

“Sooner” was five days later. Within those five days, Hanzo practiced more with the Storm Bow. Lindholm had corrected the the length of the arrows to match Hanzo’s draw length. He had presented Hanzo with what he called scatter and sonic arrows which Hanzo had become quite fond of. Combat testing was indisputable, Hanzo knew that; combat analysis was required to take place a month after the procedure preceded by a fight between certified Overwatch agents. The test was to see if Project: Horizon was a viable source of, as the UN formally said, potential agents with preordained combat experience to match their superior abilities. If Hanzo failed to provide the results the UN and Overwatch were looking for, Project: Horizon would be denied funding for future subjects and he’d continue to go through whatever assessments they deemed worthy until they could find a suitable use for him. Hanzo could name more than one Shimada elder who would have agreed with the process.

The fight was to take place in a large room within the facility that Hanzo had not been in before. Unlike the training range, the large room was built to simulate real life scenarios in order to prepare agents for going out into the field. The scenario Hanzo would be going through was a replication of an empty neighborhood at night. Lindholm had warned Hanzo that the dim lighting was meant to test the night vision built internally into his system and filled with realistic structures to see if a month of physical training paid off. His objective would be to take down the agents he was faced off against as quickly as he could with as little injuries as possible. The list of the agents he was to fight against came in the day the battle was to commence. Dr. Ziegler was incredibly unpleased with being left in the dark, but Lindholm laughed it off.

“Don’t worry, Angela,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll make a few requests and see where we go from there, alright?” Dr. Ziegler did not appear soothed by Lindholm’s words, but she did not voice any further concerns.

On the day of the fight, Hanzo was leaning against the wall of the waiting room, watching as Dr. Ziegler paced back and forth. The fight was supposed to commence in less than twenty minutes. Lindholm had promised to pick up the list of agents Hanzo was suppose to fight and return as soon as he could. That had been thirty minutes ago.

“You don’t think he got lost, do you?” Dr. Ziegler asked, her finger nervously curling around a strand of hair, a nervous tick Hanzo had familiarized himself with.

“He did not get lost,” Hanzo stated. He folded his arms firmly across his chest, eyes held steadily upon the doctor. “Worrying will not make him come sooner just as much as walking around in small circles will wear out your soles.” Dr. Ziegler ceased her pacing, opting to scratch the side of her chin anxiously instead. A strained silence filled the air. The restive doctor fidgeted under the weight of her conscious. Hanzo elected to stare silently.

Dr. Ziegler opened her mouth just as the booming sound of, “I got it!” resounded from the hallway. The relief emitting from Dr. Ziegler was palpable as Lindholm hobbled into the room, beaming as he wildly waved a paper in the air. Dr. Ziegler approached Lindholm cautiously with her knuckles rapping together in worry. He presented the paper to her proudly before walking over towards Hanzo.

“How’ve you been, lad?” he asked, prodding his elbow into Hanzo’s side affectionately.

“Operational,” Hanzo stated flatly. He didn’t bother to look down at Lindholm when he began to gleefully cackle.

“Always the sourpuss, aren’t cha?” Lindholm teased with a knowing grin. Hanzo did not reply which only seemed to spur Lindholm’s laughter forward. The boisterous howling was a lot less endearing than Lindholm thought it was.

“Um, Torbjörn?” Concern filled Dr. Ziegler’s voice as she lifted her head up, eyebrows knitted with worry. “Is this list correct?”

“Yup!” Lindholm said without a moment of hesitation. “Took me forever, but that list right there is my own personal request! Only the best for our little labor of love, eh?” He shoved Hanzo’s hip playfully, but Hanzo could not help but curl his lip in disgust at the term “labor of love” and turn his head in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Ziegler said with a tone of aggression that startled Hanzo. “These are the agents Shimada is going to be fighting? You do realize that the procedure took place less than a month ago?” Lindholm pushed himself away from Hanzo and approached Dr. Ziegler in a placid manner.

“Come on, Angela,” he said amicably, holding out an olive branch before sparks fanned into a flame. “I asked for these fellas specifically. We both know them personally and besides, the procedure went fine. Better than we had originally anticipated, yeah? There’s nothing to worry about.” Despite the sound reasoning on Lindholm’s part, Dr. Ziegler did not relent.

“I’m aware we know these people,” she hissed with a frown. “Which is exactly why I’m worried. Shimada is not ready to fight such prestigious agents!” Hanzo’s interest piqued at Dr. Ziegler’s outburst. Prestigious was certainly an attractive word when it came to sparring partners. 

“He’s proven himself ready, has he not?” Lindholm challenged. “You’re making a chicken of a feather. We weren’t just sitting around on her rumps doing nothing for a month!”

“Would you mind if I took a look at that list?” Hanzo asked as he pushed himself off the wall and walked deftly towards the other two. Both Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm, amusingly, seemed to have forgotten Hanzo was there. Dr. Ziegler handed Hanzo the list wordlessly and, with a quiet thank you, he skimmed it over.

There were only two names on the list, one of which Hanzo vaguely recognized and the other he did not know. Reinhardt Wilhelm, the first name on the paper, was one of the co-founders of Overwatch and one of its most vocal supporters. It was inconceivable for Hanzo to not be in the least bit aware of Wilhelm's existence considering his previous occupation. Hanzo narrowed his eyes when he looked at the second name. He searched the archives of his mind for some grasp of recognition, but found none. Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm had not brought up the second agent during the duration of the past month and the name clearly wasn’t important enough for Hanzo to know when working for the clan.

“I know of Reinhardt Wilhelm, but I do not of this Jesse McCree,” Hanzo said, looking up from the list. “Who is he?” There was a heartbeat of hesitation, a shared knowing glance, before Dr. Ziegler spoke.

“He is one of Blackwatch’s best agents,” she explained. “Blackwatch, while technically a part of Overwatch, is it’s own sub-unit and performs underneath a different line of command.” Blackwatch, that was a name Hanzo knew of. He had heard it spoken once or twice during a few meetings Father made him attend. It was only spoke of briefly, but always harshly. The clan did not particularly care for Blackwatch.

“If these agents are as good as you claim, then they had best put up a good fight,” Hanzo said as he handed the list back to Dr. Ziegler. She was clearly annoyed by Hanzo’s response, but any words of resentment were covered up by Lindholm’s hoots of approval.

“‘Atta, boy!” he said as he slapped Hanzo firmly on the back. “I knew you had it in ya.” Dr. Ziegler clearly had a few words of her own that she would have liked to depart, but before she could open her mouth, the robotic voice of Athena, the main AI of the watchpoint, spoke up.

“Project: Horizon, please enter the simulation chamber,” she said, voice ringing loud and clear. Hanzo stood attentive and watched as the automatic doors to the battle room opened with a soft hiss.

“Good luck, lad,” Lindholm said as Hanzo took a step forward. “Go on and make us proud.” Hanzo did not look back as he took several more steps forward. Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat and he paused, waiting for her to speak. She appeared hesitant as though she was not sure what to say.

“Take care out there,” she finally settled upon. When Hanzo looked over his shoulder, he could see that a small smile had formed upon her lips. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, turning his head as he walked into the dark room, the doors closing behind him with finality.

For a few precious moments, Hanzo could see nothing beyond the blue radiance of the light exuding from his own body. Almost instantaneously, his night vision flicked on. The shady outlines of the makeshift structures within the room manifested into fully detailed buildings as Hanzo’s vision grew into focus. Credit where it was due, the simulation appeared incredibly life-like. Hanzo could easily imagining himself standing in the deserted streets of an undescriptive neighborhood. He killed his outer lights least the opposing agents caught sight of him. He walked towards the nearest wall, evaluating where he could get a good grip, and began to climb. His new body made scaling the bumpy wall a simple task. Hanzo adroitly scaled up several buildings before finding himself on top of a roof that gave him an adequate vantage point. His peripheral view of the room covered just about every corner of the room. Unless the opposing agents stuck inside the buildings, Hanzo would sooner or later catch sight of them. All he had to do was wait.   

Hanzo heard the other agents before he caught sight of them. Uproarious laughter thundered below Hanzo, just out of view. Crouching low, Hanzo plucked a sonic arrow from his quiver, hastily notching the arrow before letting it fly towards the source of the sound. As he anticipated, two moving red outlines appeared on his sensors. One individually was alarming large, adorned in massive crusader armor and equipped with the signature hammer. There was no doubt in Hanzo’s mind, that had to be the famous Reinhardt Wilhelm. Hanzo could scarcely make out the second figure’s attire, but the faint outline of a pistol of some description was unmistakable. If he was going to properly assess his enemies, he would need to get closer. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Hanzo descended from his hideout and began to stalk the opposing agents.

He trailed the agents from a safe distance from within the upper floors of the buildings scattered throughout simulation. Wilhelm was the one laughing like a maniac. Hanzo could not hear exactly what was being said, but he gathered that the two were making small talk with McCree being the one whose humorous comments elicited the irksome bellowing from the German. Hanzo could not see McCree’s face from the distance. His attire was eerily similar to the cowboy’s, dumb hat and jangling spurs included. The pistol turned out to be a six-chambered revolver. Unless Hanzo was mistaken, there were small containers, grenades most likely, on McCree’s belt. For what purpose the containers held Hanzo would have to see. 

Although both agents were talking non-stop, they kept looking around at their surroundings. Their body language was alert, hands locked onto their weapons as their eyes darted about. Hanzo would have applauded their awareness if they did not make a simple mistake: they never looked up. Blue light illuminated Hanzo’s body once more as he stood up, reaching for another arrow. All of the weapons had been modified to be non-lethal. Hanzo’s arrows were tipped with pressure points installed into a health system that Athena was keeping track of. They would registered where they hit a target, how much damage the attack would have done, and if the target was dead or not. The timer would start as soon as first contact was made, shutting down once one side had reached zero. It was high time to make first contact.

Inhaling a short breath, Hanzo stilled as he aimed at Wilhelm’s head. The two agents were completely oblivious to immediate danger standing just several meters behind them. Hanzo felt a chuckle rise in his throat.

_Foolish_

He released the arrow, watching it soar downward, just missing its target as Wilhelm turned his torso to address McCree. The crusader staggered forward, visually bewildered by the arrow that had fastened into his right shoulder. Hanzo’s nostrils flared in irritation. He had made a mistake, a silly stupid mistake.

“First contact made,” Athena declared, her voice echoing throughout the room. “The timer has started.” Hanzo watched as the gaze of the opposing agents drew up towards his position, dumbfounded. He lingered in the spot for a moment more, observing the terrain around them, before he sprung away.

Height was a great advantage, so when the opposing agents gave chase, Hanzo kept to the roofs. It was painfully evident both McCree and Wilhelm were ground agents with little experience on higher elevations. The knowledge of such gave Hanzo enough confidence to take potshots at them from a safe distance. At least, that was the original plan.  With the bowstring pulled back to the anchor point, Hanzo scooted out from his cover behind a wall on a second floor building and released an arrow. The arrow was replied in kind by a flaming projectile that nearly singed Hanzo’s arm and three bullets that would have hit had Hanzo not dodged the flame strike. His eyes darted to the wall momentarily, soaking in the location of the bullet holes. Had he not dodged the fire strike, the bullets would have bounced off his head and the game would have been over. Perfect accuracy. Hanzo licked his lips. He needed a new strategy.

McCree and Wilhelm had their sights on Hanzo’s last position. He had clambered down to the first floor of the building, exited out a back door, and flanked the two agents from behind. He notched another arrow, walking out of cover for just a moment before shooting Wilhelm in the other shoulder. This time, both agents reacted instantaneously. McCree fanned the hammer of his revolver. Hanzo rolled out of harm’s way just in time to dance away from a swing of Wilhelm’s hammer. He landed on the balls of his feet, pivoting to shoot at McCree who was reloading quicker than Hanzo would have liked. McCree swore aloud as the arrow made contact with his foot, yanking it off just as Hanzo ducked underneath Wilhelm’s hammer.

Hanzo scampered out of Wilhelm’s reach just in time to swipe another arrow of his quiver and aim. The arrow went loose, but before Hanzo could elude another swing of Wilhelm’s hammer, his mind went blank. White burst into his vision and he, ears ringing, eyes squinting, jolted backwards as he attempted to regain some semblance of control. His internal systems whited out for several seconds before the backups kicked in. Hanzo’s vision returned, albeit moderately blurry, to give him an ample amount of time to dodge Wilhelm who was charging straight for him. The crusader flew past Hanzo, allowing the archer to spin around and loose an arrow at McCree. It landed square on his hip much to Hanzo’s satisfaction. McCree grimaced, but did not let the arrow deter him. He fanned the hammer once more, rolled to the side, and shot three rounds. Hanzo managed to elude the first seven bullets by leaping under cover behind a wall. One bullet grazed his left thigh while the other made its mark on his right forearm. He shot several warning shots at McCree which was returned in the form of five shots at his head. Both continued to take shots at one another, receiving minor blows on both sides, all attacks shot from range. McCree would hit Hanzo on the foot, Hanzo would hit McCree on his free hand. The loud shots from the revolver and the inclusion of the smell of gunpowder shouldn’t have been enough to distract Hanzo from the pounding footsteps of Wilhelm just a few feet behind him but of course, it was.

Without any warning, Hanzo, who had thrown himself behind a crate, found himself sailing through the air as Wilhelm uppercut him with his hammer. He thought he could see someone (most likely McCree) shout, “Whoa Nelly!” as Hanzo became airborne. His flight lasted for about five seconds before Hanzo unceremoniously crash landed onto the ground in a most undignified position. He shook his head furiously, gathering his bearings as the valves on his shoulders popped open, showering steam into the open air so the coolants could do their job properly. As soon as Hanzo regained his composure, he flipped himself onto his feet and reached for another arrow. It landed square in the middle of Wilhelm’s chest which, while startling enough to make him back up a step, was apparently not enough to “kill” him. Hanzo huffed in annoyance, but remained diligent. He shot another arrow, Wilhelm took the blow and swung his hammer. Hanzo ducked, rolled out of the way, rose to his knees, and notched another arrow. The arrow made its mark right onto Wilhelm’s head.

“Agent Wilhelm has been eliminated,” Athena said as soon as the arrow landed. One down, one to go.

Not bothering to watch Wilhelm as he scooted out of harm’s way, Hanzo bolted from his current position towards one of the side corridors on the map. McCree, fueled with adrenaline, followed. Hanzo pulled a scatter arrow from his quiver. He spun around and, once McCree rounded the corner, he pointed at the floor and loosened the arrow. McCree sputtered out a series of curses as the arrow broke down into several smaller arrows, bouncing around the corridor. Two of the arrows hit McCree directly to which Hanzo admired briefly before running out of corridor.

Once the two of them were out in the open once more, it became a game of hit and miss. Hanzo jumped about, shooting arrows in McCree’s general direction as McCree threw flashbangs and fired shots whenever he could. The two of them kept rolling around, evading incoming projectiles. The shots that hit were insignificant. They kept using cover, hiding from one another and taking shots when they could. They were both being too cautious, too wary of getting shot. Fighting from far away was not going to work; something needed to change.

Hanzo leaned off of the crate he was behind and looped the Storm Bow into the handle on the side of his quiver. Once it had locked into place, he threw himself out of cover, glancing around as he tried to locate McCree. The agent made himself known as he threw a flashbang from behind the support he was hiding behind. Hanzo dodged the flashbang, gritting his teeth as he sprinted towards McCree’s hiding place. The agent was briefly caught off guard. He stared at Hanzo with wide eyes, hesitating. Hanzo swung his leg upwards and collided his foot with the side of McCree’s head. McCree staggered backward in raw shock.

“Oh so that’s how it’s going to be,” he said with a disgustingly wild grin on his face. “Alright pardner, mano a mano.” He holstered his revolver in exchange of raising his fists. “Bring it.”

So Hanzo did. He quickly realized that what McCree lacked in technique, he made up for in strength. When Hanzo made a sweep for McCree’s legs, the man would trip over with a pathetic whelp, but when he tried to grab the McCree's legs to drag him forward, McCree would kick him with a force so great it left him reeling backwards. The two exchanged blows for what felt like an eternity. Hanzo relied on his superior body to withstand most of McCree’s blows, but the sheer strength behind the blows was wearing him out. McCree was beginning to tire too he realized. Sweat was pouring from his brows and though his grin was vicious, Hanzo could hear his labored breaths and see arms shake. Just like before, they were at a gridlock and would continue to be until something changed.

McCree had gotten a hold of Hanzo’s wrist in a firm grip. Normally, Hanzo would kick McCree in the shin, bash their heads together, or something on those lines to distract McCree so he could wiggle out of his grasp. He couldn’t do that again—he had to be smart. Hanzo grew slack in McCree’s grip, feigning defeat. McCree didn’t think twice about Hanzo’s intentions. He simply grinned, relaxed his hold onto Hanzo as he pulled him forward. Another foolish mistake. Once McCree’s grip had grown lax, Hanzo took the initiative. He made a grab for McCree’s arm and, using all the strength he had, flipped the man over onto his back. He shoved his knee firmly onto McCree’s groin, provoking a painful groan. He hastily pulled a basic arrow out of his quiver and, before McCree had time to react, shoved it straight onto his neck.

“Agent McCree has been eliminated,” came Athena’s monotone voice. McCree blinked in surprise as though he just realized what had happened. “The match has been concluded at 4:26. Please exit the simulation room for briefing.” Relief flooded Hanzo’s senses. It was finally over. Returning the arrow back into the quiver, Hanzo stepped off of McCree and began to head off towards the direction of the exit. He was sure McCree yelled after him once he got up, but Hanzo did not care. The test was over and he had passed. That was all that mattered.

When he exited, he was greeted with a thrilled Lindholm who was practically screaming with delight.

“I knew you had it in ya!” he declared with a slap to Hanzo’s knee. “Ya see, doc? He did just fine!” Dr. Ziegler nodded in compliance.

“Yes, you performed very well,” she concluded. Although she was smiling, it appeared strained like she wasn’t as pleased as she let herself off to be. Hanzo was about to speak himself, but he was interrupted by loud laughter erupting behind him.

“That was amazing,” the unmistakable voice of Wilhelm claimed. “I have not had a good fight like that in a long while!” Hanzo turned around to see and ah yes, he was face to face with the hulk of a man that was Reinhardt Wilhelm.

“I was pleased with the results as well,” Hanzo replied drily.

“Ha!” he barked. “You sound a lot like Reyes with that tone of voice.” Hanzo had no clue who “Reyes” was and, for whatever reason, Wilhelm did not seem keen on explaining.

Lindholm was evidently on good terms with Wilhelm for as soon as he acknowledged his presence, the two of them embraced and began to hit it off immediately. Hanzo elected to stay quiet, simply watching as the two old friends conversed.

“Well hey there.” Hanzo glanced to the side, blinking in surprise when his eyes landed on the—no, _his_ —cowboy. In the heat of the battle, Hanzo had not thought to look at McCree’s face longer than necessarily. He had not thought to see if he knew McCree’s voice, let alone realize that he and Hanzo’s cowboy sounded so familiar. It was obvious when the pieces were put together, amazingly obvious actually—it was a wonder Hanzo hadn’t figured out out earlier.

“So, uh…” McCree fidgeted underneath Hanzo’s gaze. He took his hat off, slowly lowering it to his chest respectfully. He couldn’t quite meet Hanzo’s gaze (Hanzo had a mask on did he not? What was so hard about looking up at a mask?), rubbing the side of his neck uneasily, glancing to the side nervously. “You fought mighty well, caught me off guard more than once.”

“I remember you,” Hanzo blurted out, startling both McCree and himself. Hanzo desperately wished he could somehow grab his words out of the air and force them back into his mouth. McCree seemed to think differently.

“You do?” he asked as a his face melted into a sanguine expression. Hanzo suddenly found it hard to look at McCree what with his eyes becoming so absurdly tender. They barely knew each other and yet there McCree was, staring at Hanzo like they knew each other, a small yet winsome smile drawn on his lips. That level of relentless fondness reminded Hanzo of Genji back when they were little. Hanzo would yell at him, scream obscenities he didn’t mean. Later, once his anger had deflated, he would try to wipe away what he had said, never truly apologizing but feeling sorry anyway. Genji would smile, the same smile McCree had, as though he understood what Hanzo felt and they would act as though nothing had transpired between them. Had he the capacity, Hanzo was sure he would have vomited.

“You weren’t thinking,” Hanzo said, hoping a change of subject would wipe away the nausea gnawing at his stomach. McCree blinked doltishly.

“What?”

“During the fight,” Hanzo clarified. “We could not best one another on more than one occasion. You didn’t try to change your technique to gain the upper hand.”

“Oh.” McCree ran a hand through his hair. His fingers had trouble combing through the oily brown strands knotted together. “I’ll be sure to sure to keep that in mind.” Hanzo clicked his tongue, the sound coming out more like a mechanical snap than the disdainful dismissal that Hanzo had hoped for.  

Dr. Ziegler, bless her, came to Hanzo’s rescue. She smiled at McCree as she asked him how he was feeling. Hanzo tuned out of the conversation as soon as McCree began talking about a peculiar rash that had formed on his abdomen, favoring to stand wordlessly as the four around him began talk amongst themselves. Hanzo was fully aware of the sly glances McCree kept slipping him when he thought Hanzo wasn’t looking. Hanzo did his best to ignore him, squaring his shoulders and pointedly keeping his head turned away from the cowboy. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo could have sworn McCree was smiling at him as though he knew Hanzo was intentionally trying to ignore him.

After what felt like forever, despite Hanzo’s internal chronometer insisting that he had been standing for a mere seven minutes, Wilhelm announced that he and McCree had other matters to attend to.

“I am glad you convinced us to come over,” Wilhelm said as he clasped his hand firmly on Lindholm’s shoulder. “That was a _glorious_ fight!” Wilhelm laughed, his rumbling chuckles filling the entire room. “Listen, we must go for now, but Jesse and I will be stationed at this watchpoint for a while longer. If you ever need us, just call.”

“We’ll be sure to inform you if we are ever in need of your services,” Dr. Ziegler said with a dutiful nod. Her smile, Hanzo noted, did not appear authentic.  If anyone else noticed her discomfort, they did not say so. Wilhelm and Lindholm exchanged a few more obnoxious jokes before the crusader bowed his head and made his leave. McCree placed his hat back onto his head and followed suit, pausing briefly to tip his hat in farewell. Hanzo pretended not to notice the playful wink sent his direction.

“That went better than expected, eh doc?” Lindholm said as the agents walked out of sight.

“It was certainly… eventful,” Dr. Ziegler concluded. Her lips were pursed together thoughtfully. Though disquiet, she refused to share whatever was stewing in the back in her mind, much to Hanzo’s discontent.

“Dr. Ziegler, weren’t we scheduled for another one on one session after the combat test had been concluded?” Hanzo asked. Dr. Ziegler stared off into the space, unaware of Hanzo’s question.

“Dr. Ziegler?”

“Oh, yes!” she sputtered, suddenly aware. “Yes we should… head off.” She paused as confusion clouded her eyes. Lindholm finally took notice of the doctor’s distorted state.

“Do you need to lay down, Angela?” he asked to which Dr. Zeigler shook her head furiously.

“No, no,” she asserted, looking more confident. “I am perfectly alright. Come on, Shimada. We don’t have the time to spare.” Mutely, Hanzo followed Dr. Ziegler down the hallway Wilhelm and McCree had sauntered through earlier. Something about Hanzo’s performance in the simulation unnerved Dr. Ziegler. He was not just about to drop the subject entirely, especially with the idea of him performing beneath Dr. Ziegler’s expectations worming its way into his head. He’d have to bide his time, bring it up when the time was right. For now, he had more tests to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got unexpectedly busy the past two weeks. My apologizes for posting this chapter later than I had intended. I do know for a fact that I will be very busy for the vast majority of this month. The next update should be sometime on the 6th so keep your eyes peeled for it then. Thank you to everyone who has read so far. Your support means a lot to me!
> 
> Here's a few quick things I haven't addressed in the fic but figured I should bring up anyway:
> 
> \- Jesse does not have a mechanical arm yet. He will eventually, but not at the moment.  
> \- Everyone, with a few exceptions, will be referred to by their last name until Hanzo starts to call them by their first name.  
> \- There is a plot! I wanted to start building the foundations for some of these relationships before we got to it though.   
> \- Hanzo's cyborg body is more mechanical than it is organic. He'll have a few extra features outside of just having a metal body.


	4. Keep it Together

As wondrous as it was, Hanzo’s new body did not solve all of his problems. It was to be expected of course—the notion that all of Hanzo’s internal dilemmas could be solved through procedure that, although miraculous, was completely physical procedure was absurd. He could practically see Dr. Ziegler partially covering her mouth with the back of her head giggling, “I’m not a miracle worker!” as she always did when Hanzo or Lindholm asked if she could perform some task she deemed too extraordinary to be on her level of expertise. Indeed it would take a miracle to cure Hanzo of his insomnia. He wasn’t entirely sure what had triggered it in the first place, but considering that the insomnia had first appeared when he turned twelve, the year his relationship with his family rapidly deteriorated, it wasn’t hard to attribute its appearance to events at the time. His insomnia had persisted for years, relenting only after particularly successful sessions of meditation or after his body became too exhausted to reject sleep. Unfortunately for Hanzo, his insomnia was on its regular schedule with no signs of leaving anytime soon.

He glared up at the ceiling defiantly, nostrils flaring as he glowered at the white tiles above him. Since the operation, Hanzo had been issued a proper room. It lacked any sort of character, just like the other rooms he had stayed in, but it had the essentials: a bed, lighting, a wardrobe for clothes, and a desk with a chair on wheels accompanying it. Normally, Hanzo would try to distract his mind by readjusting the blankets, but after realizing just how pointless blankets were with his new body, Hanzo had folded them neatly on the top of the wardrobe. Staring at the ceiling without any sort of cover was somehow more frustrating than normal and the everlasting humming within his head didn’t provide the kind of white noise he was used to sleeping to.

Even worse, he didn’t need to check his internal chronometer to know that he had been awake for several hours. No doubt that the sun would soon rise and Hanzo would have to go through his daily routine without a wink of sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened and it wouldn’t be the first time Dr. Ziegler got on his case for it either. 

Snarling, Hanzo threw himself off his bed and marched to the door. It took a lot more mental preparation to get up than it should have, but Hanzo would be damned if he just laid down and did nothing for another few hours. If he wasn’t going to sleep then he mind as well make some use of his time. He snatched the Storm Bow from where it laid by corner of the room and flung the quiver it latched to onto his back. Lindholm had told Hanzo to keep the Storm Bow with him a few weeks back. 

“Besides,” Lindholm had said after he handed Hanzo the bow. “I see ya nearly everyday. If the bow needs any adjustments, I’ll make them when I see you again.”

Watchpoint: Gibraltar was particularly quiet in the morning. The coffee in the kitchen still had another hour to brew and the only lighting in the room was the hazy green glow of the clock on the stove. Hanzo rolled his shoulder comfortably as he silently padded down the hallway towards the training room. The lights in the room flickered on as he entered, dimly illuminating the paneled floor. Hanzo strolled towards the targets, settling himself a reasonable distance from them as he unlatched his bow from his quiver. A quick warmup would do him some good; after all, he could always use the practice.

Pinching the shaft of one of the arrows, Hanzo notched the arrow to string of the Storm Bow and pulled it back. He straightened his back, breathing in as he lined up his target. He could feel the tension in the string grow as he pulled it back towards the anchor point, body stilling as he lined up the shot. He let go of the string, watching as the arrow flew through the air and landed on its mark. The arrow latched itself into one of the robot’s head, causing it to whirl loudly before collapsing on its side. Hanzo hummed approvingly before grabbing another arrow and repeating the process again.

Hanzo had taken down about twenty robots when someone else entered the training room. He had taken out a scatter arrow and aimed at the floor in front of the bot before firing. The result had been the scatter arrow bursting into the robot from several different directions. Hanzo had been pleased with that shot, staring fondly as the robot succumbed to its injuries. 

“You’re pretty handy with that bow.” Hanzo spun around, eyes narrowed, as he glared at the newcomer. McCree was leaning against the door frame, smoking a cigarillo with a raised eyebrow. Had there been anyone else around, Hanzo might have taken offense to how openly McCree was looking him over. He was far too open for Hanzo’s fancy, but, then again, he was the one who saved him with an untimely demise. It would be impolite to not give him some leeway. 

“What are you doing here?” Hanzo barked as he lowered his bow. “This facility is restricted to everyone without a pass.” If he was with the clan, Hanzo would have never been so blunt. He had learned to make polite conversation whenever possible and disguise his desires underneath honeyed words. As it turned out, being sentenced to death by the only people he trusted didn’t exactly enforce Hanzo’s desire to dance around in conversations.

McCree stuck his thumb underneath his shirt and tugged the lanyard around his neck upward. Hanzo caught sight of the same I.D. card that Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm carried around pop out from underneath McCree’s shirt. 

“I got special permission to come here,” he explained as he lowered the card. “Gotta say though, the regulations to get in here? Some of the strictest rules I’ve ever seen which is really sayin’ something considering how many people around here seem to have sticks shoved up their—” 

“What are you here for?” McCree’s mouth promptly closed at Hanzo’s interruption. It was sufficient to say that Hanzo wasn’t going to get any decent practice with McCree leering at him from the corner of the room. To say the cowboy’s entrance was annoying was putting it lightly. An irksome pest was a better way to describe the man who, for whatever reason, seemed to be grinning Hanzo like he had just thought of something terribly funny. His accent grated on Hanzo’s ears and while he had found the cowboy outfit amusing at first, he was beginning to dislike just it’s gaudiness. 

“Well,” McCree said, twisting his thumbs into his belt loops. “I came here for you.” 

_ Well, obviously _ . The small facility in the watchpoint was set aside for Project: Horizon which, coincidentally, Hanzo was the only subject of. Still, that didn’t mean Hanzo wasn’t caught off guard by just how straightforward McCree was. He should have expected such unseemly behavior from someone who wore a cowboy hat unironically, but he thought better of an agent of Overwatch. Now that he was being exposed to McCree more, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was he had expected.

Hanzo sighed softly, massaging his temple (or rather, where his temple would be if he wasn’t wearing a mask) with his free hand. There was still a possibility he could persuade McCree to leave. All he had to do was cut the conversation short, give McCree enough of whatever he wanted to be satisfied, and then he could get on with his daily schedule.

“What business do you have with me?” Hanzo asked as he looped his bow around the latch of his quiver. He didn’t bother facing his body towards McCree, but he did grace him with a turn of his head.

“Let’s just say I’m here on part of an interested party,” McCree said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. He took several steps forward, his eyes never leaving Hanzo.

“Does Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm know about this ‘interested party’?” Hanzo asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. McCree chuckled softly in a low husky tone. 

“She knows what she needs to know,” he replied with a shrug. Hanzo huffed disapprovingly, diverting his gaze from the cowboy. That was a cryptic answer if he ever heard one. McCree clearly got access to come to the facility; whether or not McCree’s appearance was known by the doctor and Lindholm was a whole other story. He mentioned that it was hard to get in. Perhaps he used a loophole of some sort? Hanzo spared a glance in McCree’s direction. He was staring straight back at Hanzo expectedly as though he was waiting for him to say something. Too bad for McCree, Hanzo was in no mood to play games. He raised his chin ever so slightly, challenging McCree to speak first. The agent licked his lips anxiously, stuffed his hands in his pockets as he absentmindedly kicked his foot forward.

“Ah well uh…” Hanzo blinked mutely at McCree who had begun scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Would you mind if I took a few shots? ‘S hard to talk without occupying my hands, y’know?” To cement his point, McCree unholstered his revolver and shook it in the air gently. A mixture of surprise and confusion flooded Hanzo. Instinctively, his head inclined to the side.

“Were you not discussing just how rigorous the regulations to get into his facility are less than a minute ago?” Hanzo questioned. “How could you possibly bring a weapon in here?” Out of the blue, McCree began chuckling aloud. Hanzo straightened up, rearing his head back as he glared at McCree. 

“S-Shit, sorry,” McCree said as he tried to cover up his laughter with the back of his hand. “It’s just… that head thing you do. It’s really….” Whatever McCree was going to say faded away once he shook his head. “Nevermind that.” The grin was wiped off McCree’s face and was replaced with a suitably more serious expression . “To be perfectly honest, most people who tried to get in here with a weapon would be forced to hand them over before they stepped foot in the place. Me? Well, I got special permission to carry firearms around in certain restricted places. It’s a little perk for the, uh, division I work for.” If the gawky way McCree pronounced “division” hadn’t caught Hanzo’s attention, then the way he tried to obscure his face with a dip of his hat certainly would have. 

“Blackwatch, you mean?” Hanzo asked in a monotone voice. 

“Ah!” McCree said, his shoulders relaxing as a small smile grew upon his face. “Someone told ya, eh?” Saves me the trouble of having to tiptoe around the subject whenever I’m around you.” 

“Dr. Ziegler mentioned the organization when she was trying to convince me to join,” Hanzo explained. “Blackwatch was mentioned in a few meetings I’ve attended as well so even if the doctor did not enlighten me on the subject, I would have already known the basics of your ‘division’.” McCree nodded approvingly, but did not speak. Hanzo feared the conversation would lapse into another bout of uncomfortable silence, and while Hanzo was by no means against trying to chase McCree off, he highly doubted that he would not be able to do so in the current state of the conversation. McCree didn’t seem set on leaving just yet, much to Hanzo’s dismay. Mumbling under his breath, Hanzo quickly added, “So why exactly can a Blackwatch agent bring a gun to a restricted area while a regular Overwatch agent cannot?” It wasn’t a topic Hanzo was particularly interested in, but it wouldn’t hurt to know. Besides, if he bored McCree for long enough, he might leave.

Unfortunately for Hanzo, McCree practically beamed at the chance to talk about his organization and, to an extent, himself.

“Well, y’see,” he began in a tone that warned Hanzo he wasn’t going to stop talking anytime soon. “Agents are allowed to have weapons on their person while in a watchpoint, but they must disarm in certain restricted areas. Blackwatch is a cover ops division with Overwatch being its parent organization so while certain rules apply we, through a loophole in the small print they wrote all these rules on, can technically bring weapons in restricted zones in case we’re doing, uh, y’know—” McCree motioned his hands vaguely in the air. “Cover ops stuff.”

“So you can technically bring a gun into the facility, but no one will be happy with it,” Hanzo concluded, a twinge of amusement bubbling in his chest. 

“Pretty much,” McCree confirmed with a noncommittal shrug. “So, d’you mind if I take a few shots?” Hanzo paused, briefly weighing the consequences of rejecting or accepting McCree’s offer. Perhaps letting the cowboy shoot a few targets would make him leave faster. That would give him some peace and quiet. At least, as much quiet as he could have with the humming in his head.

Hanzo took a step back and motioned his head towards the stationary targets nearby. McCree tipped his hat thankfully before marching over towards the targets. The jangling of his spurs both looked and sounded utterly absurd and Hanzo could not help but listen to the McCree’s obnoxious breathing. Was he really not aware of all the noise he was making by not closing his mouth? Were Hanzo not trying to evaluate McCree’s performance, he might have just laughed at the ridiculousness of his outfit. The cowboy positioned himself in front of the targets, taking a shooting stance. His body looked far more relaxed than most gun users Hanzo had seen in the past. His arms were lowered a bit too much and his feet positioned strangely for a shooting stance. Hanzo opted to stay quiet and allow McCree to either make a fool of himself or prove to be just as good as he was earlier.

McCree breathed out through his nose, straightening his shoulders, before suddenly unholstering his gun and firing rapidly into the targets. It would be ignorant to say the accuracy wasn’t impressive; all the bullets had hit near the bullseye which was by no means an easy feat, especially with the strange relaxed stance McCree was taking up. Hanzo could see him checking for the cyborg’s reaction from the corner of his eye. Hanzo refused to move beyond a small notion with his head for McCree to continue to which he complied with. There was raw talent mixed up with whatever training Blackwatch had provided McCree. Hanzo could definitely say he had never seen anyone shoot like McCree before but, then again, he had seen few people use a revolver let alone use one like him.

“Impressive,” Hanzo said as he folded his arms together “I’ve never seen anyone shoot quite like you before.”

“That’s because there ain’t anyone like me,” McCree said confidently. He reloaded his gun and, bracing the muzzle against one of his arms, he fanned the hammer, sending six bullets straight into one of the target’s chests. “My aim is the only reason I’m here,” McCree continued. There was a hint of pride in McCree’s voice mixed in with a slight haughtiness that did not escape Hanzo’s attention. “If Reyes didn’t catch me when he did, I’d probably be dead somewhere in Deadlock Gouge.” 

Ah, there was that name again: Reyes. Hanzo had been confused when Wilhelm had drawn a connection to him and Reyes as he did not know who Reyes was. It was almost pitiful on his part that he, the heir to a criminal empire, couldn’t recognize the name Gabriel Reyes when it was staring him straight in the face. Dr. Ziegler had informed Hanzo who Reyes was the day after the fight. The way McCree spoke of him, both in terms of the implication of the sentence as well as the faintly warm tone of his voice, gave Hanzo an inkling of an idea of the man’s connection with McCree’s “division”. 

“If he picked you up, then he has a good eye,” Hanzo commented idly. He hadn’t really meant anything by that, he was just trying to drag a conversation out of McCree, but McCree must of found some meaning within his words. The agent stopped firing the targets, glancing to the side as smoke dwindled up from the muzzle of his revolver. He stared at Hanzo, brown eyes darting about as though he was searching for something. There wasn’t much to look at, especially with a blank mask staring back at him, but whatever McCree was looking for he apparently found it.

“Yeah,” McCree finally agreed after a moment of hesitation. “That he does.” Done with his little display of marksmanship, McCree holstered his gun and began walking back towards Hanzo. “You know,” he began slowly, glancing away momentarily. “There’s a big meeting next week. A bunch of people, ‘specially the higher ups, are going to be piling into this watchpoint. Reyes will be one of them.” McCree paused as he reached Hanzo’s side, turning his eyes to look at him. “Maybe you’ll meet him then, who knows.” 

Was that why McCree arrived to the training room? To tell Hanzo Reyes wanted to see him? What possible reason could Reyes have for wanting to see a work-in-progress cyborg? 

_ I suppose that’s something I’ll have to see for myself _ .

Instead of asking the few obvious questions that were racing in Hanzo’s mind, he dipped his head in acknowledgment. 

“We’ll see when the time comes,” he said casually. “For now, I have a daily check up to head to.” That wasn’t necessarily true, he would be very early for the check-up, but Hanzo was already drained by the conversation with McCree and wanted a break. McCree bid Hanzo farewell, but the cyborg offered little more than a dismissive wave in return. Without so much as looking back, Hanzo exited the training room and headed towards the check-up room.

It was safe to say that Hanzo was about an hour early for his checkup. The sun had finally risen over the horizon and it was a reasonable time to be up and about, especially for someone with a schedule as busy as Dr. Ziegler to be awake. Still, Hanzo hadn’t expected Dr. Ziegler to be in the room when he came in, but, lo and behold, there she stood with a bundle of papers clutched in her hands. Her head shot up as soon as Hanzo entered, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as set the papers to the side. “You’re rather early are you not?” Hanzo stopped in the doorway, pausing momentarily before taking a step in.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted as he walked into the room. “It would be an inefficient use of my time to lay idly in bed when I could be doing something useful.” Dr. Ziegler hummed in response before nodding towards the exam table. Hanzo wordlessly plopped himself onto the table as Dr. Ziegler began her examination. She motioned for Hanzo to hand her his wrist. He obeyed, watching mutely as she slide open the compartment and began to examine the wiring within it. Hanzo stayed quiet for several minutes, watching as Dr. Ziegler poked and prodded him, before his curiosity got the better of him. “I heard there was going to be a meeting to commence here sometime soon,” Hanzo said casually. “You wouldn’t happen to know what it’s about, would you?” Dr. Ziegler visibly stiffened. 

“Who told you that?”

“McCree.” There was no use in trying to hide the cowboy’s identity. 

“Of course he did.” Dr. Ziegler palmed her forehead with an irritated sigh.. “I knew he was staying at the base, but I didn’t think he’d get permission to come in here so soon.” The news of McCree arriving in the facility distressed Dr. Ziegler more than Hanzo would have imagined for he rarely heard her sound so frustrated. Dr. Ziegler closed the compartment on Hanzo’s wrist and moved on to his other wrist. “If you must know,” she said as she opened the compartment on the wrist. “There will be multiple meetings taking place here; the biggest meeting will be about restarting the Blackwatch operation in Hanamura.” Now that caught Hanzo’s attention.

“Wasn’t that still going on after I was…recovered?” The word “obtained” was on the tip of Hanzo’s tongue but the idea that he was simply procured like a package of some sort left a disgusting taste in Hanzo’s mouth. Recovered, at the least, had same sense of value. 

Dr. Ziegler shook her head as she shut the second compartment. 

“No, when the team picked you up, the mission was placed on a hiatus. With the ensuing chaos that broke out among the Shimada clan, the mission was deemed too risky to continue.” Hanzo clicked his tongue thoughtfully as Dr. Ziegler turned her attention to the clipboard on her desk.

“Shouldn’t this have been resolved sooner?” he questioned. Dr. Ziegler glanced up from her clipboard with a questioning expression. “It’s been months since Project: Horizon took off,” Hanzo elaborated after a moment. “Surely the issue of continuing the mission would have come up in a earlier date.” Dr. Ziegler sighed loudly, rubbing the side of her face in annoyance. 

“There’s more than one reason the mission has been put on hold,” Dr. Ziegler said as she set her glared down at her clipboard. Her tone suggested that she would very much rather not talk about the subject, but she continued as she began to furiously scribble down onto the paper. “Reyes wants to reinstate the operation as a co-ed mission between Overwatch and Blackwatch. Not in the sense that he wants Overwatch agents in his operation, but more in the sense that he wants you.” Dr. Ziegler looked up briefly, presumably to gauge Hanzo’s reaction. His body language gave away nothing and obviously there was no facial expression for her to read. Dr. Ziegler, with a small sniff, continued. “You’re technically part of an Overwatch project so he can’t just snatch you up without stating the mission as a cooperation between Blackwatch and its parent organization.” 

“That doesn’t explain why numerous higher ups are visiting this watchpoint,” Hanzo pointed out. “You said there would be multiple meetings, but it seems like a coincidence for so many people to show up for a spree of meetings, no?” Dr. Ziegler rolled her eyes and mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like “Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he?”. 

“Project: Horizon is not a cheap nor small project,” she explained. “Jack doesn’t want to give people access to you without a good reason so he, along with a few people he trusts, are coming down to make sure that doesn’t happen.” The doctor paused briefly, rapping the end of her pencil against her cheek. “The meeting will take place in a week if you were wondering.”

Were it not for the way Dr. Ziegler spoke as though Hanzo was in someone’s possession, he might have challenged her explanation. He did not particularly care for the way she said he was something people had to have permission to see. It made him feel like a prized animal at a zoo or someone’s plaything that they only shared with people they trusted not to break it. Dr. Ziegler had been in a perpetual state of uneasiness since the fight several weeks ago and with the newfound feeling of being someone’s prize, Hanzo was by no means in a good mood. Whatever semblance of comfort lingering in the room had completely vanished; neither Hanzo or Dr. Ziegler were happy with the current arrangement of the checkup. It was a suffocating atmosphere that made Hanzo want to leave as soon as possible, but seeing as Dr. Ziegler was most likely going to prick him with some needles at some point (he certainly did not want her sticking anything into him whilst in a bad mood) he decided to change the subject to something he had been wondering about ever since he woke up in his new body.

“Doctor, did you or Lindholm program in some sort of… white noise into my new body?” Hanzo asked a bit reluctantly. He had brought up the topic with Lindholm before, but the dwarf had told him it was no big deal albeit not explaining what the humming was. “Lindholm explained that the humming was not a malfunction, but he did not provide me with an explanation for what it was.” The question seemed to catch Dr. Ziegler off guard. She looked up from her clipboard and blinked at Hanzo inquisitively. 

“You can hear a humming sound?” she asked in surprise. “You mean, without pause?” Hanzo nodded. “Ha!” An unexpected smile bloomed from the doctor’s lips. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be able to hear it. Although I do suppose it is rather close to your eardrums so it would be rather strange for you not to hear it. Still, I never would have imagined—”

“Doctor,” Hanzo interrupted, leaning forward ever so slightly. “What is the origin of the humming?”

“Ah, it’s, oh hold on.” Dr. Ziegler placed her clipboard down on the table beside her so she could give Hanzo her full attention. “Well, first off, you must know that this technology, the one used in the project I mean, is incredibly new.” No surprise there. “Your body is still in an incredibly delicate state of development. If certain systems, say, your life support, suddenly failed, your body would go into a total meltdown and you would die. So, Lindholm along with a team of robotics developed an AI that’s connected to your body.” Hanzo felt himself freeze at the mentioning of the AI, but if Dr. Ziegler took any notice, she did show it as she continued speaking. “It performs basic yet necessary tasks such as regulating internal functions, automatically fixing problems that are within its range of expertise, sending damage reports directly to your brain, and relaying instructions for manual repair among other things. It also—”

“Wait, you placed an AI into my body without telling me?” Hanzo asked. He felt his fingers digging into the soft leather exterior of the examination table. Dr. Ziegler, suddenly realizing her patient’s state of alarm, lowered her voice as she began speaking in a more gentle tone. 

“It’s not sentient,” Dr. Ziegler said. “It was necessary considering the numerous unknown factors with your body. We’re still trying to figure you out and we don’t want a silly mistake to ruin all of our progress. The only reason you can hear the humming is because it’s lodged into your brain, but we had it put it there to assure—” Hanzo was done listening to Dr. Ziegler babble on about the AI. Without a single word, he flung himself off the examination table and headed for the door. He could hear Dr. Ziegler call for him to stay, but he didn’t dare stop. He didn’t care that he was being extremely rude or that he was leaving before the checkup was done. He needed to clear his head, badly. 

There weren’t a lot of places for Hanzo hide away in until he became functional enough to deal with the consequences of leaving in the middle of check-up. The facility was incredibly small with just enough room for living space, training, and for Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm to perform their necessary functions. Hanzo could always try escaping from the facility, but what good would that do? There was no doubt in his mind that he was being monitored 24/7 not to mention Overwatch was one of the, if not the single most, prestigious organizations in the world. They’d catch him before he could step foot off the watchpoint. Besides, where would he go? Whenever he felt the distinct sense of wanting to return home, Hanzo couldn’t figure out exactly where home was. Hanamura had obviously been his home before, but after everything that had happened, he realized that he didn’t belong anywhere anymore. 

In hindsight, Hanzo should have expected someone to be in the training room when he came waltzing in. His mind was so preoccupied with trying to keep the bombardment of existential thoughts at bay that he didn’t realize the room was already occupied until he looked up and saw two figures standing on the other side of the room. Lindholm and McCree were standing next to each other, speaking to one another boisterously. Hanzo stopped in the doorway, glaring as McCree, who must have told a joke of some sort, grinned as Lindholm burst into obscenely jovial laughter. Practicing with the Storm Bow in an attempt to relieve Hanzo’s mind of any thoughts was certainly out of the question. McCree’s eyes shifted to the side and, on catching sight of Hanzo, waved enthusiastically at him. The archer felt himself stiffen as Lindholm turned around as well, shouting a greeting as he motioned for Hanzo to come closer. Even if he had the capacity to interact with other people in his current state of mind, Hanzo wouldn’t happily join such obstreperous company. Throwing standard social cues to the side, Hanzo turned away from the training room and headed to the only room in the facility he knew he could get some peace and quiet in. 

For all the supervision Hanzo had, it was somewhat of a relief that his room was the one place he could head to without having to practice or take tests or interact with people at all. Unfortunately, it also meant that it was only place his mind was free to reflect upon his past which was every bit as dangerous as it was needed. Hanzo placed his quiver and bow down on the table by the door as gently as he could manage. He could feel his fingers twitch erratically as he sat on the bed, knees folded underneath him. He closed his hands into fists against his lap, taking in a deep breath as he tried to clear his mind. Meditation had been both a source of relief and strain within Hanzo’s life. It was a coping mechanism—a way for Hanzo to abate the stress of his daily life in exchange for a moment of relaxation that he desperately needed. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it failed horribly. With any luck, he’d be feeling better after the session or, at the very least, feeling something besides the mixture of self-loathing and anger that rose up when Dr. Ziegler brought up the AI.

He closed his eyes, drawing his breath in from his nostrils as he straightened his back. He released his breath, relaxing his fists as he tried to concentrate on the smooth rhythm of his own breathing. Personal concerns aside, it was amazing how Hanzo’s new body could mimic actions that came with breathing. He could feel the effortless motions of air entering his lungs and out of his nose. His chest heaved like it would in an organic body and although his eyes were closed, Hanzo knew the action was visible, and yet, there was something wrong. 

His lungs weren’t entirely organic, were they? They were intertwined into a semi-biotic collection of mechanical systems built both inside and outside of him. What did that make him? He couldn’t be human with so many mechanical parts, and yet, the heart of a man beat within him so he couldn’t be a machine. Realizing that his thoughts had strayed from meditation, Hanzo forced himself  to relocate his concentration back onto his own breathing. He needed to clear his thoughts, not sustain himself on the thoughts he was trying to run away from. His hands clenched tighter, easing open as Hanzo let out a shaky breath.

Maintaining a continual sense of calm was becoming harder with every passing second. Mother had taught Hanzo that meditation was about clearing one’s mind; obtaining mental silence so one could approach their problems constructively. Ha, but did that matter anymore? Hanzo had failed his singular purpose in life: being the leader of the Shimada clan. He wasn’t even sure if they would recognize him anymore. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he recognized himself anymore. Hanzo, knowing he had broken concentration again, tried to lure his mind back to his breathing, but his thoughts would not allow it. 

“Agreeing to the operation was a mistake,” a small voice inside of him jeered. “You’re just a tool, not even a person. It would have better if Overwatch just let you died.” It was that kind of voice that Mother would say was telling lies. It was a voice that wanted nothing more than for Hanzo to needlessly suffer, but if that was true, why did he agree with it?

Breath hitching, Hanzo slumped his shoulders, grasping his visor with his fingers that dug in. 

“Shit,” he hissed, his throat feeling constricted as though a rope were tied around it. “Shit.” He was tired of feeling terrible all the time and he didn’t know how to fix it. It was too good to think that his problems would somehow be whisked away overtime and he knew better than that. A simple daily routine of training and testing was utterly exhausting, but he couldn’t just stop either. He might be the one who got a new body, but that body belonged to Overwatch, not him.

A shaky breath escaped Hanzo as he partially opened his eyes, licking his lips anxiously. He didn’t know what to do to stop himself from feeling so awful and yet, he could not bring himself to confide in anyone on the base as well. Dr. Ziegler and Lindholm had good intentions sure, but they did not know Hanzo and vice versa. They worked for Overwatch and besides, if his family taught him anything it was that to show any sign of weakness was an fraudulent sign of disrespect. Hiding and running away from his feelings was what he was good at, but for how long could he continue that charade?

Hanzo knew he could hide his feelings only for so long. How was he going to internally deal with his feelings if he couldn’t outwardly express them? An echo of the past remerged in Hanzo’s mind. He could see Mother, sitting down on a mat as she brushed elegant ink strokes on the paper in front of her. Hanzo had been six at the time, young enough to be considered a child in the eyes of the clan. Hanzo couldn’t remember exactly what he had done at the time to make him cry in front of his father, but he remembered the result vividly. Father had chastised him thoroughly, claiming that it was unlike a Shimada to cry and that he was by no means allowed to perform such an act ever again. That, of course, just made Hanzo want to cry even more, but he knew doing so in front of Father would not go in his favor. Genji had been a toddler at the time so that left only one person to talk to about his dilemma 

Mother, as expected, had laughed at Hanzo’s problem.

“You can’t let anyone know that you’re hurting,” she said. “You know better than to talk about these things to your Father.” Hanzo had shifted uncomfortably on the cushion he was seated in.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he had asked, biting down on his quivering lip. Mother had stopped writing, tilting her head to the side as she examined her work. 

“You never cry in front of other people,” she said, not even sparing a glance at Hanzo as she stared down at the paper. “Never show your true colors to anyone. If you want to cry, do it where no one can see or hear you. The last thing the clan needs is for everyone to think the heir is a weak child who sniffles over every little thing that happens.” Hanzo had frowned at the remark, lowering his eyes as he balled his fists into his lap. He knew better than to doubt Mother, but her advice didn’t sound helpful in the slightest. Keeping his emotions bottled up just made him feel worse. Sure, he felt embarrassed after he cried, but it also felt good to accept the reality of a situation. Trying to brush his emotions under a rug, never to be addressed, just manifested the sense of self-loathing that he had only recently begun to be acquainted with.

“Is that what you did?” Hanzo asked as he mustered the courage to look up. “Do you cry when no one can hear you so you don’t disrespect the clan?” That had caught Mother’s attention. She stared down at Hanzo with wide eyes filled with some emotion he couldn’t quite recognize. After a moment of silence, she chuckled, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. 

“If you’re brother is half as smart as you are, then the clan will certainly have their hands full,” she said as she laid down her brush. “Come, your brother’s lessons should be ending soon and I’m sure he’d very much like to see you.” Hanzo did not bring up the subject again because even though she did not say it directly, Mother had answered his question and he needed time to decide whether her answer was a good thing or a bad thing. 

A shuddering breath escaped Hanzo as he rubbed the side of his helmet. Mother’s advice had been instrumental in shaping him into the heir that the clan wanted, but it had also hurt him, made him loathe himself when he had the capacity to feel and numb when he went through bouts of feeling like the emotional equivalent of dryness. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to continue to follow such advice, especially considering the damage it could do, but what other choice did he have? He didn’t know what was healthy nor was he in the position to be asking for help from the same people who were going to have a meeting about his usefulness.

Ah, that was right, the meeting! Hanzo felt foolish for forgetting that it was to take place. In just a week’s time, he would learn exactly what Reyes wanted with him and what exactly he would be doing. Considering the nature of Hanzo’s admission into Project: Horizon and based on what both McCree and Dr. Ziegler said, Reyes wanted to use Hanzo’s knowledge of the Shimada clan to his advantage. That alone brought a load of moral questions that Hanzo was not ready to answer, but he didn’t need to answer them just now. All he had to do was wait. Just like Mother said, he could ignore the inevitable explosion of emotions until it happened. Hanzo lowered his hand, straightening his back as he took in a long breath. He was an expert of hiding his emotions; he could last another seven days without breaking down. Hanzo exhaled, eyes fluttering open. Just one week, he could survive for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm not entirely sure when the next chapter should be coming up, but since I got a few days off in the next two months, it shouldn't be too far off! Next chapter should explain some of the behaviors of the characters in this chapter along with introduce a few more characters. We might also be getting some plot it? Maybe?? 
> 
> As a shameless promotion, go check out lxette's work! They're an asshole who writes cute little drabbles and I love them.


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